


Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 265,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the final battle of the barricade Valjean manages to save not only Marius, but a few other members of Les Amis, including Enjolras. While the surviving Amis grieve and try to hold each other together, Valjean must find a way to face his past and protect them from the authorities, including a still alive and increasingly unstable Javert. Beta'ed by ariadneslostthread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Barricade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi readers! In this AU premise, Valjean manages to save a handful of Les Amis and things continue from there, turning the tide of the story for all our favorite major characters. This is largely Brick-centric, but it is also blended with several plot and character elements from the stage show and the film. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Side-note: my characterization of the national guard army general is based on Hadley Fraser's very interesting portrayal of said character in the Les Mis film. To me, it just really looked like he didn't want to shoot those boys, and I'd never imagined it like that before, hence the idea for that bit in this chapter.

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Or Men of Mercy)

Chapter 1: The Barricade

Valjean still isn't sure how he managed it.

All he knows is that a bullet is flying toward a ten-year-old boy and he's launching half his body over the barricade wall and pulling Gavroche back, losing his grip and sending the little one flying back onto the concrete, barely missing the bullet himself.

"Gavroche!" the boy called Grantaire shouts, rushing over to him and scooping him up. "What the hell were you thinking! Are you alright?" He looks over at Valjean in utter awe, then looks back at the child in front of him.

"M'fine," Gavroche mumbles, rubbing the back of his head. "I was only trying to get the ammunition." He hugs Grantaire briefly, and catches Valjean's gaze, silent but very grateful.

"I know," Grantaire says, the usual playfulness gone from his tone. "But you aren't to go back out there. Our lives are one thing…"

"But yours is quite another," Enjolras finishes, looking both shaken but firm. "Back in the café with you. Do not come back out, do you hear me?" His tone is kind but there's also something formidable there, something that even Gavroche won't argue with.

The boy nods, still looking a bit defiant even as Grantaire follows him inside, obviously intending to watch him. Valjean looks around at the wide-eyed revolutionaries, seeing how upset they are at nearly seeing Gavroche killed before their eyes; they're like surrogate brothers to him.

"Thank you monsieur," Enjolras breathes, resting a slightly trembling hand on Valjean's shoulder. "I'm not quite sure how you did that. I couldn't forgive myself if something happened to Gavroche. Nor could Grantaire. Or any of us."

"I'm not sure how I did it either," Valjean answers honestly, surveying the young man before him, who he guesses is in his mid-twenties, though his face looks much younger, somehow. He's incredibly brave, that much is clear, he's passionate, intelligent, but underneath the courageous face he puts on for his compatriots, Valjean can tell he's frightened; not for himself, but for the lives of his brothers in arms.

Enjolras knows his friends were fully aware of what they were getting involved in, knows death is an inevitable part of revolution, but he also clearly wants to save as many of them as possible.

Valjean thinks France would do well to have more young men like them, young men who possess such compassion and empathy for those suffering around them.

"You are a blessing Monsieur Fauchelevent," Marius says, joining the two of them, and Valjean feels his heart twist in his chest as he imagines telling his sweet, beloved Cosette that the boy she loves is dead.

He cannot let that happen.

He won't.

Because if anyone in the world deserves happiness, it's her. He remembers her lost in the woods, shivering in the freezing cold wearing nearly broken wooden shoes, dirt streaked across her face.

His thoughts, however, are interrupted by the call of the National Guard.

" _You at the barricade listen to this! The people of Paris sleep in their beds! You have no chance, no chance at all! Why throw your lives away?"_

Valjean can't help but hear the pleading in the man's voice…he doesn't want to give the order to shoot…

But he will.

Because it's his duty.

Adrenaline races through Valjean's veins like electricity and he raises his gun, glancing over at Marius, who is nodding at Enjolras, a spark in his eyes.

"Let us die facing our foes, make them bleed while we can!" Enjolras declares, fire with just a pinch of fear blazing through his bright blue eyes, his gaze running over his friends, one hand resting on his heart.

"Make them pay through the nose!"

"Make them pay for every man!"

"Let others rise to take our place, until the earth is free!" Enjolras raises his arm in the air, and the other boys, though still afraid, join him, their eyes shining with determination. Enjolras has sent away those with wives and children, so it is just these few left. Grantaire comes back from inside the café, shutting the door closed on Gavroche and seizes a gun, his expression full of admiration for Enjolras.

They are bonded together, these young men, and they will follow their leader, will stand firm with the dream of a free France living in their hearts.

Unto the dream of freedom.

Unto revolution.

Unto death.

"Canons!" the national guardsman shouts, and Valjean inches himself closer to Marius, determined to drag him out of here should he fall.

The guns go off around him, the sound exploding in his ears. He gains a footing on the barricade itself, his bullets piercing several national guards in front of him.

And then the canon goes off.

"Move!" he shouts at Marius, who is so intent on pumping out bullets that he isn't paying attention.

Marius jumps, nearly colliding with Enjolras as the cannonball comes blasting through the barricade, sending four other boys soaring through the air.

They're dead before they hit the ground.

But there's no time to grieve, not yet.

National guards come sprinting through the hole in barricade, and what follows can only be deemed a blood bath, with men falling on both sides.

But there aren't more than twenty-five young men left and there are hundreds of soldiers now that this is the only barricade remaining, and Valjean's heart physically aches as they fall. It's raining blood, and he can't save them all.

Then he hears the sound he's feared most.

"Marius!" Courfeyrac shouts! "Duck!"

But it's too late.

A bullet pierces Marius' abdomen and he goes down, blood spilling forth. Throwing caution to the winds, Valjean rushes over just as the boy's eyes flutter closed, and he quickly checks his pulse.

He's alive, just unconscious, but that could easily change.

He spies a small entrance to what looks like the sewer and makes an instantaneous decision. He places Marius as gently as he can upon his own shoulders and makes for the entrance, pushing it open. None of the guards notice in the mayhem, and his eyes fall on the small knot of boys still left. He pushes Marius inside the tunnel and calls out to Grantaire, who is nearest him.

"Grantaire! Bring Gavroche here, and we'll escape through the sewer. The barricade is overrun. There's no need to lose your lives here!"

Valjean isn't sure if Grantaire will convince the other boys, isn't sure if he'll come himself, but he does go to retrieve Gavroche and shields him with his own body before depositing him in the sewer tunnel next to the unconscious Marius. Enjolras spies them, taking in the situation, a plan forming in his eyes.

Valjean watches the thoughts and emotions flit across the boy's face; He desires revolution for the people of France with every fiber of his being, desires victory so that change can take root, but he also knows this barricade is lost; but his love of his friends, his yearning to save them, triumphs.

If he gets them out, they can live to fight another day.

He places himself in front of the sewer opening, gun poised.

"Grantaire, follow Gavroche, he might need help through there. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan, Feuilly come!" Enjolras shouts, ushering them past him as he shoots into the oncoming stream of soldiers, the spattered blood of his dead friends dotting his blonde hair and dripping down his face.

Valjean watches as they all run past Enjolras one by one, doing as he says without question.

Only Jehan isn't quick enough.

He falls, a single bullet piercing his heart.

He's dead in seconds.

Enjolras reaches for him, desperately trying to drag him toward the sewer, but the ground is slick with blood, and he slips.

"Enjolras!" Combeferre cries, tears flooding his voice. "He's dead, Enjolras, come on!"

Enjolras pauses then backs up slowly, guarding their escape with his gun and the others back up to give him room to enter, his hands drenched with red from trying to save Jehan's already dead body.

Another gunshot flies through the air, hitting Enjolras deep in the shoulder.

And then a second in his thigh.

"Halt!" Valjean hears the army general call, and the flood of guards ceases.

Enjolras stumbles and falls, clinging to consciousness. Grantaire hands Gavroche to Courfeyrac and reaches out for Enjolras, the sound of a lone pair of footsteps approaching.

It's the army general.

He stares hard, gun pointed directly at them, but his eyes swim with conflict, with melancholy, and he hesitates. Enjolras winces, breathing in sharply with pain as his hand grasps Grantaire's arm, the two of them frozen in place in front of the guard.

A tension-packed moment passes, and Valjean's heart is in his mouth, threatening to leap out and sprint off down the street. With all of his years spent hiding from Javert, with all the years spent constructing a new identity and having multiple houses for an extra precaution, he's used to this feeling, but it doesn't mean that makes it any easier. Even in the convent he'd been constantly on his guard.

"They've gone into the café!" the army general shouts, lowering his gun, pushing Enjolras onto Grantaire's shoulders and shutting the door to the sewer just as another flood of his men come running over the barricade.

They're left in the darkness now, left in the overpowering stench, but Valjean doesn't move until he hears the footsteps pass them as they follow their commanding officer's fake trail back into the café.

It's an act of mercy from an unexpected source, but Valjean silently thanks the unnamed solider.

Thanks God.

He shifts Marius onto his shoulders, mirroring Grantaire's stance with Enjolras, whose eyes fall closed, the pain sending him spiraling into unconsciousness.

But he's still breathing.

Gavroche's voice cuts into the silence, and the always courageous child finally allows a tinge of fear into his voice. His gaze flits back and forth between Valjean and Grantaire.

"Are they alive?" he whispers.

"Yes, Gavroche," Grantaire says, keeping his own terror in check and holding out Enjolras' limp wrist for Gavroche to touch. "See? He's still got a pulse."

Gavroche nods, then reaches over to do the same with Marius.

"How do we even get out of here?" Courfeyrac asks, voicing the question that everyone else is thinking. "The Paris sewer system, it's like a maze."

"I'm not sure," Valjean admits. "But it was the only way out of there." He pauses, soaking in their grief for their friends, their grief for the loss of their revolution.

"Joly, Bousset, Bahorel…Jehan," Combeferre whispers, their names sounding like a prayer on his lips. "So many dead, I don't…" he trails off, eyes falling first on Marius, then on Enjolras, their fallen leader, his medically-trained brain assessing their injuries and the very obvious risk for infection inside this place.

"I know," Valjean says, gentle. "I know. But right now we've got to concentrate on getting out of here. You'll show me the way to Marius' grandfather's house..."

"Marius' isn't welcome at his grandfather's house," Feuilly points out. "They've had a falling out."

"I think you'll find he'll change his mind when he sees the state of his grandson," Valjean says kindly. "We will at least try. The rest of you shall stay with me."

"You have room for all of us in your home?" Grantaire asks. "A place for Enjolras to recover? They might not have the information to come hunting all of us, but they know who Enjolras is, he's on every list in Paris."

"You'll be safe, all of you," Valjean assures him. "I promise."

"Monsieur," Grantaire presses. "Why are you being so generous?"

Valjean turns to him, knowing it's only fair that they don't quite trust a stranger in the midst of their tightly knit camaraderie.

"My daughter Cosette, she loves your friend Marius here," Valjean says, a small smile on his face, a strange sadness mixing with a strange sort of joy in the pit of his stomach. "How could I be anything but generous to his friends?"

They soak in his words, terrified but trusting him.

Because who else do they have to trust now?

"I think I might know a way out of here," Gavroche pipes up. "I come down here sometimes."

Valjean finds he doesn't want to think about why a child would come down into the sewers, so instead he allows Gavroche to direct him from atop Courfeyrac's shoulders, and leads them deeper into the darkness.

And hopefully toward the light.

 


	2. Evading the Inspector

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

   (Men of Mercy)

 Chapter 2: Evading the Inspector

It’s darker in the sewers than Grantaire expected.

Although the stench is just as terrible.

Not that he’s spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the Parisian sewer system, but still, he hadn’t known it would be this horrific. They’ve been in the sewer for at least an hour, and at one point the disgusting water (filled with things Grantaire chose not to think about) had been up to their waists. Now it was merely at their ankles, and Gavroche swore the end was in sight.

But Grantaire’s arms were sore, were screaming at him to put down his burden.

But he couldn’t drop Enjolras.

Grantaire depended up on Enjolras’ soaring faith, on his belief, on his passion for change, on their strange friendship, to keep going. He had leaned on Enjolras without Enjolras even fully realizing how much the most cynical member of their group needed him. Idolized him.  The memory of his own near breakdown at the barricade, of Enjolras’ bewildered, tentative, yet still warm embrace, struck him.

But now?

Enjolras needed him instead, and he wouldn’t fail.

He couldn’t let his wounds get any nearer this dirty sewer water than he already had.

“Do the best you can to keep that leg wound away from the water,” Combferre had said earlier, eyeing Enjolras with concern. “It could get infected so easily, especially with that bullet lodged in there.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure how Monsieur Fauchelevent could carry Marius on his back without even looking winded; the man was unnaturally strong, especially for someone his age…he was certainly nearing sixty.

“Are you alright Grantaire?” Courfeyrac asks, his green eyes filled with concern and exhaustion. “Do you want me to carry Enjolras for a while?”

“No, it’s alright,” Grantaire answers. “You’ve got Gavroche.”

“I could do it,” Feuilly cuts in. “You’ve been carrying him ever since we entered this place. Enjolras isn’t a big man, but you’ve also been wading through water.”

But before he can answer, Fauchelevent turns to them.

“I see a light a few feet away,” he says. “Stay here and let me go above to make sure it’s safe.”

The others nod in agreement, but something tells Grantaire he needs to follow their rescuer.

Being the cynic he is, he needs more confirmation that they can trust him. He might not be a fighter, he might not be an intellectual, but he will do what he can now, to protect his remaining friends, the friends who always took him in, despite how frustrating he knows he can be.

“On second thought,” Grantaire says to Feuilly. “Could you take Enjolras for just a moment? I’m following him.”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says, looking nervous. “Don’t. He told us to stay back here.”

“I want to know if we can trust him,” Grantaire argues, placing Enjolras as gently as possible in Feuilly’s arms. “I won’t reveal myself.”

Ignoring Combeferre’s continuing concerns, he makes his way slowly to the chink of light several feet away, his gaze falling on the filth covered Fauchelevent, still holding an equally as filth covered Marius on his shoulders.

But there is a second man, too.

The man who’d spied on them, the man Gavroche uncovered.

The police inspector who Grantaire thought dead, killed by the very man who rescued them.

Well, apparently not.

Grantaire leans in closer, taking in every word of their conversation. The inspector looks furious, unhinged, but Fauchelevent looks nothing but patient.

Patient, yet desperate.

“It’s you Javert,” Fauchelevent says quietly, meeting the man’s eyes directly. “I knew you wouldn’t wait too long, the faithful servant at his post once more, but this boy’s done no wrong and he needs a doctor’s care.”

Javert sneers. “He’s an insurgent. Of course he’s done wrong!”

“According to who?” Fauchelevent answers, the first tinge of anger lacing his tone.

“To the law!” Javert answers, his voice almost a cry. “I warned you, I would not give in. I won’t be swayed!”

“Another hour yet, Javert!” Fauchelevent says, shouting now. “And then I’m yours! And all our debts are paid!”

Grantaire breathes in, trying to understand the bewildering situation before him; what the _hell_ are they talking about? Why would the inspector be after this man, unless…

“The man of mercy comes again!” Javert taunts. But Grantaire can’t help but think that he sounds like he’s losing his grip, and he’s wondering now, what happened between them behind the barricade. “And talks of justice!”

Man of mercy…

Had Fauchalevent spared the inspector’s life? But he said “again”…clearly there is some kind of history here, some kind of history Grantaire is determined to find out.

“Look down, Javert, he’s standing in his grave! Time is running short,” Fauchelevent presses, stepping forward slightly, and Grantaire notices just how very intimidating the two men look; Fauchelevent tall, broad, and covered in dirt from the sewer, and the inspector, equally as tall and dressed all in black.

Javert pauses, his face twisted in what looks very much like mental agony, as if his brain can’t process something.

“Take him, Valjean!” he says, waving his arm in defeat, eyes wild with rage at either himself, Valjean, or both, Grantaire isn’t quite sure. “Before I change my mind! I will be waiting, 24601!”

Valjean?

24601?

What on _earth_?

Grantaire ducks when the inspector looks in the direction of the sewer, and watches the man who is apparently called Valjean walk past with Marius, obviously not able to turn around for them just yet.

24601…French prisoners were branded with numbers, if Grantaire recalled correctly.

This man…this Fauchelevent or Valjean or whatever his name, was as much on the run as they now were, had obviously invented a fake persona. Was he an escapee? Did he break parole? There were so many questions and so few answers, and yet this revelation, oddly, made Grantaire trust the man a smidge more than previously; he certainly won’t turn them into the police or alert the National Guard.

But Grantaire wants answers.

He turns back around, returning to his friends.

“What happened?” Gavroche questions, looking at Grantaire with worried eyes. Grantaire wants to tell the child who is like a little brother to him that everything is going to be okay; but he can’t.

 Because there’s every chance it would be a lie.

 Enjolras looks paler than he did a few minutes ago, no doubt from blood loss, and Grantaire’s heart twists in his chest. If they don’t get out of here soon, both Enjolras and Marius will die.

“I’m not sure,” Grantaire answers, taking Enjolras’ still unconscious form back from Feuilly. “The inspector who spied on us, he was there, confronting Fauchalevent, but he let him go with Marius. I expect he’ll be back for us as soon as the man is gone.”

He doesn’t tell them the rest of the story yet, knowing it’s too complex to explain before Fauchalevent/Valjean returns.

And return he does, just a few moments later.

“It’s all clear,” he says, lifting open the grate, laying Marius on the ground and helping the boys out one by one.

Once they’re all out, Valjean eyes Enjolras warily.

“We’ve got to make our stop at Marius’ grandfather’s home brief,” he says. “Luckily the bullet went clean through Marius’ abdomen, but his wounds,” he continues, gesturing at Enjolras with worry clouding his eyes. “I believe the bullet is still lodged in both his shoulder and his leg. Do any of you know the address?”

“I do,” Courfeyrac says. “But I’m still not sure Monsieur Gillenormand will be so welcoming.”

“We shall try,” he says, repeating his earlier words. “Lead the way, Monsieur Courfeyrac. We need to be careful, it won’t be long until light.”

Luckily, it doesn’t take them that long; after about fifteen minutes they reach the large Parisian townhome that Marius abandoned for his single room in the tenement, where he’d met the so recently and tragically deceased Thenardier girl, Eponine. It’s impressive, Grantaire thinks, for the first time really appreciating all the things Marius gave up for his political beliefs. Enjolras’ rich father also scorned his son’s beliefs and refused to speak to him; but his mother secretly sent letters, Grantaire knew, because he’d caught Enjolras reading one when he thought he’d been alone in the café.

He couldn’t imagine how the person who answered the door would react at seeing a rag-tag group of barricade survivors covered in sewer soot and blood, but they approach anyway. Valjean knocks, waiting a few moments before a middle-aged woman, Marius’s aunt, Grantaire guesses, opens the door.

“What in the world?” she asks, then looks down and spies Marius, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “Oh, Marius!”

“These boys are the only survivors of the barricade Madame,” Valjean says in explanation. “And they have told me this is the residence of Marius’ grandfather, Monsieur Gillenormand.”

“Yes, yes,” she breathes, eyes running over Marius’ unmoving form. “I am his aunt, my father is upstairs, still sleeping.”

“We cannot be long,” Valjean says, tone kind but firm. “I must get these other boys back to my residence and summon a doctor. I wanted to bring Monsieur Marius here first, as you are his family, but I’ve also been made aware that there is some opposition to his having been at the barricade in the first place.”

“Come in,” she says, opening the door wide. “Oh, Marius. Lay him in the parlor there. And the other boy, too, at least until you leave. I will go and fetch my father.”

She’s gone a few minutes, and all is silent until the voice of an elderly man echoes down the stairs.

“Marius!” the voice of Monsieur Gillenormand shouts. “Oh God, he has been to the barricades and he is dead! He is dead!”

He reaches them, not having eyes for anyone but his grandson. The other boys are astonished, Grantaire notices, and so is he.

But apparently near-dead family members trump politics in the eyes of this old man.

“Marius, you foolish boy,” the grandfather whispers, feeling Marius’ wrist and realizing he’s still alive. “Oh, you are alive! Oh, thank goodness!”

At this, Marius opens his eyes ever so slightly, but Grantaire can still read the surprise within them. His eyes dart from his grandfather, to Valjean, to his friends, and to Enjolras lying on the couch beside him, still unconscious. He opens his mouth to speak, but his grandfather rests a finger to his lips.

“Don’t speak,” he whispers. “It will take too much of your effort. Your aunt has gone to summon a doctor, and you are safe here with me, I promise.”

Marius visibly relaxes, affection for his grandfather resting in his eyes, but his voice, cracked though it is, pushes forth from his lips.

“You survived,” he says, looking at the other boys. “But Enjolras…”

“I am taking them to my home,” Valjean says, his voice somehow filling Grantaire with the sort of safe warmth he hasn’t felt since being tucked into bed by his parents as a child. “And Enjolras will have the best care possible, I swear to you. And as soon as you are well you may come visit them,” he pauses, looking at Marius as though he is seeing him for the first time. “And I shall send Cosette to see you.”

Grantaire’s watches Marius’ eyes light up when realizes he’s been saved by Cosette’s father, and he can’t help but be happy for his friend, much as he might have teased him just two days ago. The grandfather looks confused, but Valjean clears it up.

“I believe your grandson and my daughter have found love in each other,” he says. “My address is No. 7 Rue de L’Homme Arme. Please let me know when Marius may receive visitors.”

With that he beckons them to follow him, stopping to turn at the sound of Marius’ voice.

“Thank you monsieur,” he says to Valjean, his voice wracked with emotion. “Thank you for saving me. For saving my friends. There is nothing I can do to thank you enough.”

Valjean smiles at him, nodding his head in response.

“We shall see you tomorrow,” he says.

They exit, and Gavroche, so long silent (it’s unusual, Grantaire thinks, but he’s also probably traumatized) speaks up.

“Enjolras’ leg,” he says, pointing. “It’s bleeding worse than before.”

It’s not until then that Grantaire realizes he’s right; there’s fresh blood on his shirt.

“Give him to me,” Valjean says, reaching for Enjolras. “Come, my home is only a few minutes from here.”

Grantaire does as asked, but as he meets Combeferre’s eyes, he knows their beloved leader really is in danger.

Grantaire isn’t always sure he believes in God, but he silently prays for Enjolras’ life anyway.

He can’t die. Not now, not after they’d escaped the barricade.

So when Valjean starts running, even with the weight of Enjolras on his back, they all run behind him.

* * *

A scream interrupts Javert from the task at hand.

A distinctly female scream.

His eyes are closed, his foot poised over the ledge, ready to surrender himself to the unmerciful depths of the Seine.

He pauses, knowing it is impossible to jump; he can’t do it now, cannot possibly have someone witness his weakest moment. If he jumps with no witnesses they will write in the papers that he drowned, and that is acceptable.

He cannot have people knowing that he chose to take his own life.

He opens his eyes, heart racing so fast that he can see it beating through his shirt when he looks down. He turns around carefully, the rush of the river pounding in his ears…the river that was meant to be murky, cold escape from a world he can no longer comprehend.

“Monsieur!” the owner of the voices calls, coming closer.

She’s young, Javert thinks, not more than eighteen or so, long blond hair flowing behind her.

But why, why did she have to be taking a stroll at this time of the night? What in the world could she possibly be doing out? She hardly looks the criminal type, yet Javert often finds that criminals commit the most heinous of crimes under cover of night.

“Monsieur!” she calls again, rushing up to him. “You…you looked about to jump off the bridge!”

“I…” Javert uncharacteristically stumbles over his words, and this only frustrates him further. “No. I was merely thinking.”

The young girl’s expression tells him she’s not convinced, so he changes the subject.

“What are you doing out so late, madmoiselle?” he asks, clearing his throat. “There are all sorts of vermin out at this time of night, it isn’t safe for a young girl.”

“I was looking for my father and,” she pauses, unsure of what to call the second person. “A friend,” she finishes. But her attention is still focused on him. “You look affright monsieur,” she says, brows furrowing in concern. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She’s genuinely worried, Javert realizes. Her voice is soft, gentle, as though afraid if she says the wrong thing he’ll return to his post and go sailing off the bridge to his most certain death.

Such concern for a stranger…

It reminds him of someone, reminds him of the very person who caused his distress, his near suicide.

But surely…

“I have merely experienced some distressing events this evening,” he evades. “At the barricade in the center of the city. A policeman’s work is never finished. Where do you live?” he asks abruptly. “I cannot allow you to walk home alone at this time of the night.”

“The barricade!” she exclaims, ignoring his second question. Fear glistens in her eyes, and he’s sure now that someone she loves was with the insurgents, but she won’t speak further. He’s a policeman after all, and it’s his job to arrest any insurgent he comes across.

But she doesn’t know he’s already let one go with Valjean.

She recovers, but she’s still twisting her fingers anxiously.

“I live at No. 7 Rue de L’Homme Arme,” she says, finally answering his second question.

Javert has been socked in the stomach before, and the feeling he experiences now is exactly the same.

Perhaps worse.

This is Cosette.

This is the girl Jean Valjean took in as his own, the daughter of the prostitute Fantine. He’s clearly failing at keeping his damned emotions in check, because she’s looking at him in confusion.

The irony of this moment is not lost on him, because who would have thought this girl, the child of the man who drove him to such ends, would be the one to stop him from plunging into the river.

“I will escort you home,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m sure your father will be home, and he will be worried.”

Unless Valjean was somehow apprehended (though Javert doubts it), it is only a matter of minutes until Valjean will arrive home, and Javert has no desire to meet with him again.

Because he can’t arrest him, can’t send him back to the galleys.

Here he is again, at the precipice.

A convict was a good man, but he was still a convict. Arresting him was wrong. Not arresting him was also wrong. Javert shakes his head slightly, pain pulsing at his temples.

His life, his code, his foundation…is broken.

But he will walk the girl home nonetheless, because he cannot follow through on his impulse to end his life with her present.

She nods, consenting to follow him.

They walk in silence for whole journey because Javert’s head is too full of thoughts to speak coherently, and he’s never been eloquent in the art of small talk. Cosette is clearly pre-occupied with thoughts of her father, and Javert is sure that the boy Valjean carried on his shoulders is the love of the girl walking beside him. They reach the front gate of her home, and she turns to him.

“Thank you monsieur,” she says, offering him a small, tight smile. “I appreciate you walking me home.” She pauses, unsure, but presses ahead. “It’s none of my business, really, and I don’t know what’s troubling you, but I hope you find some way to get through. Someone to talk to. It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

 _It’s better than taking your own life_ , are the words she doesn’t say, but the words Javert knows she means.

She smiles again, and Javert feels an odd sort of warmth chipping away at his stony, trembling heart.

This girl has touched him, somehow.

Even if it’s the last thing he wants.

The adopted child of a convict he’s chased for nearly twenty years has touched him, and this only adds to his distress. She’s perhaps one of the purest people he’s ever come across, and there’s only one answer for how she turned out that way.

Valjean.

He nods, unable and not willing to articulate any of his inner turmoil. “Good evening, mademoiselle,” he says. “No more late-night strolls, alright? I’m sure your father will be home soon.”

He watches her go, watches her close the front door of the quaint but spacious home, footsteps so light he barely hears them.

He could wait here for Valjean, could take him in as he’d sworn during their encounter outside the sewers.

_I will be waiting, 24601!_

But he won’t.

He can’t, and he hates himself for it.

But he’d also hate himself if he did.

He turns to go, pulling his black coat tightly about his shoulders against the wind.

 


	3. A Doctor's Visit

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

   (Men of Mercy)

A/N:  Just as a note, I’m pulling character interpretations and plot points from the various versions of Les Mis, namely the novel, the 25th anniversary U.S tour I saw here in DC, the 25th anniversary DVD, and the movie. It’s sort of a mix of all those things, so I hope that works!

 Chapter 3: A Doctor's Visit

Enjolras feels someone laying him carefully down on what feels like a chaise lounge of some kind, and his eyes fly open; he has no idea where he is.

Is he dead?

No, if he were dead the pain wouldn’t this ferocious, this unforgiving, ripping at his insides like a knife.

He sits up so fast it makes his head spin, pain radiating through every inch of his body, red-hot and unyielding, blood running in sticky rivulets down his skin.

“Easy Enjolras, easy,” a voice says beside him, gentle hands pushing him back to a horizontal position.

It’s Combeferre, and he’s covered in dirt, his light brown hair sopping wet with sewer water, blood smudged all over his clothes. Worry glistens in his eyes, brows furrowed so low they almost touch.

“Where am I?” he asks. “What…what happened? Where is everyone?”

The memory of Jehan falling, his eyes glossed over with death, flashes in his mind and he shakes his head, willing it away.

But it’s only replaced with the knowledge that Joly, Bousset, and Bahorel are dead too, along with countless others students who joined their cause, banding together on the top floor of the Café Musain.

The weight of guilt falls on his chest like an anvil, and breathing suddenly becomes increasingly difficult. The air comes in shallow, rapid breaths, anxiety building a burning knot in the center of his stomach.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says again, ever patient. “Breathe for me, okay? It’s alright.”

It’s not alright, Enjolras wants to say. It is so _very_ far from alright.

 “You’re at Monsieur Fauchelevent’s home. He’s brought us here and says we’ll be safe. He’s the father of Marius’ Cosette, can you imagine?”

“Marius,” Enjolras whispers, sitting up again against Combefere’s will. “Where is Marius?” He needs to know, urgently, where Marius is, because he remembers his friend falling beside him, blood pouring from his abdomen, a river of red.

“We took him to his grandfather’s home,” Combeferre answers, running a practiced hand up and down his friend’s back, continuing his explanation upon seeing Enjolras’s perplexed expression. “M. Gillenormand welcomed him with open arms; he’s safe, and he’ll be fine, in time. Courfeyrac and Feuilly have some small wounds that Monsieur Fachalevent is tending to, and Madmoiselle Fauchelevent is cleaning Gavroche up.”

“And Grantaire?” Enjolras questions, a very faint memory of being carried in Grantaire’s arms stirring in his mind. He remembers very clearly, however, the image of Grantaire grasping onto him, half shielding him while the army general stood before them, gun pointed directly over his heart.

But then he’d let them go.

 _Why_ had he let them go?

“I’m here,” Grantaire answers, entering the room with a bowl of water, towels, and what looks like a sifter of brandy.

“You saved me,” Enjolras says, meeting his eye, the idea that Grantaire had been willing to die with him and for him sinking in, and he finds he’s indescribably touched.

He also remembers Grantaire protecting Gavroche with his own body while he ran with him to the sewer. Though he’d only articulated his thoughts on this to their friends a few times, Enjolras has always suspected Grantaire capable of selflessness, of belief, if he would only realize it; otherwise, why would a self-proclaimed cynic befriend and place himself in the midst of a group of such fervent idealists? He’s never fully understood Grantaire, has grown frustrated with him on countless occasions, but nevertheless, he still very much considers them friends.

And now with the memory of Grantaire breaking down and their subsequent embrace at barricade fresh in his own mind, with the knowledge that he’d carried him all the way through the sewer for God knows how long, Enjolras wants him to know that.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent did the saving,” Grantaire mutters humbly, the usual amusement missing from his voice as he hands Combeferre the supplies. “I just carried you most of the way.”

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that,” Enjolras insists. “Thank you…” His next words are cut off by a wave of pain, rendering him silent.

“The doctor will be here as soon as possible,” Combeferre says, in his line of vision again, though he notices it’s getting blurry. “A doctor Monsieur Fauchelevent knows from his days working in the convent, so there’s no danger to us. But in the meantime I need to stem this bleeding and clean these wounds, and I’m going to need Grantaire to help me. Is that alright?”

Enjolras nods, biting his lip against the pain that now refuses to abate.

“You need to drink this,” Grantaire says quietly, kneeling beside the couch with a glass of brandy.

 _Drink with me, to days gone by_ …

The words of so many of his dead friends resound in his head, echoing into the crushing silence.

“I don’t really…” Enjolras begins in protest. He drinks wine sparingly, and never hard liquor.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre chides, his tone still overwhelmingly kind. “I know it’s in your nature to be stubborn and that you don’t care for liquor, but this is all we’ve got to help the pain until the doctor comes. I haven’t got my medical bag with me. So please lay back and let Grantaire help you get that down.”

Enjolras gives in, knowing his friends are right. Grantaire puts the glass to his lips and tilts it back; the strong liquid nearly gets coughed back up, but Enjolras closes his eyes and swallows, a sudden warmth spreading through his body.

“One more,” Combeferre directs.

Grantaire complies, helping Enjolras swallow once more; he has to admit, it does take the edge off the pain.

Combeferre makes quick work of sliding off his tattered red jacket and his shirt so he can get a good look at his shoulder wound, and to Enjolras’ surprise, he actually looks relieved.

“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig here, but there’s an exit wound, and that’s a good thing,” he says, taking one of the towels and wrapping it around the wound to stem the bleeding.

“I think I’m ruining Monsieur Fauchelevent’s furniture,” Enjolras remarks, feeling very much as if the world is spinning around him.

“I don’t think he’s the sort of fellow who will mind,” Grantaire says, the ghost of a joke in his voice.

They all fall silent as Combeferre cuts away the square of trouser fabric surrounding the bullet wound in Enjolras’ leg, and as soon as Combeferre puts the wet towel around the wound to clean the dirt away, Enjolras cries out, fingernails digging into the fabric of the chaise lounge.

“I know,” Combeferre says, apologetic. “I know it hurts, but I’ve got to get started cleaning this, the bullet is lodged in there and the risk of infection…”

“I know,” Enjolras says, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout…”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, the odd sound of a reprimand in his voice; usually it’s Enjolras reprimanding him instead. “You’ve been shot. Twice. And you’ve got a bullet lodged in your leg. You’ve got every right to shout.”

Combeferre continues wiping away the massive amount of sewer filth until there’s a knock at the door. Enjolras watches a now clean Monseiur Fauchelevent stride forward and open, it, greeting a friendly looking man with greying hair and a large black bag.

“Monsieur Figueron,” Fauchelevent says, greeting the doctor with a warm handshake. “Come in, please.”

“You’ve got a young man with gunshot wounds?” the doctor asks, handing his coat and hat to Fauchelevent, eyes landing on the three boys in front of him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras spies Courfeyrac and Feuilly entering the room, clad in clean clothes that are at least two sizes too big for them, and coming down the stairs he sees the girl who must be Cosette, a hand resting on Gavroche’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Fauchelevent said, gesturing forward. “Monsieur Enjolras is just through here.”

Doctor Figueron follows Fauchelevent into the little room off the entrance hall, and the small knot of boys parts, allowing him access to Enjolras.

“Hello there lad,” he says, a sad smile gracing his features as his eyes take inventory of the injuries. “I see someone’s already gotten started here.”

“I’m a medical student monsieur,” Combeferre pipes up. “I tried to stem the bleeding on his shoulder and clean the leg wound, but the latter is proving troublesome as I don’t have any of my supplies with me.”

Doctor Figueron nods, looking back at Enjolras, who regards him with wary eyes.

“I know all of you have been at the barricade,” he says, his tone brimming with sympathy, making direct eye contact with his patient. “And I need you to know that you’re safe here with Monsieur Fauchelevent and with me. I need you to relax so we can take care of these wounds, alright?”

Anxiety pumps through Enjolras’ veins, but something about the doctor’s voice, about the kindness practically emanating from Monsieur Fauchelevent, calms him.

“Yes,” he says, nodding, watching Gavroche break away from Cosette and come to stand in the doorway, looking more solemn that Enjolras has ever seen him.

It’s the cleanest he’s ever seen him too, come to think of it, but Enjolras regrets now, not sending him away from the barricade, regrets that he’s seen things no child ever should, but he knows in his heart Gavroche would never have left them willingly, knows he worships the ground they all walk on.

“I’m going to give you some Laudanum,” Doctor Figueron continues, pulling a bottle out of his bag along with a teaspoon. “It’ll help with the pain before I pull the bullet out.”

“I don’t think I…” Enjolras begins to say, but is promptly cut off by the glares of his friends.

“Trust me son,” Figueron says, pouring a dose carefully into the teaspoon. “As much as I hate to say it, you’re going to need this. Ready? This is a bit bitter.”

Enjolras nods, still feeling slightly embarrassed as the doctor tilts the spoon into his mouth. The taste is actually horrifically bitter but he swallows anyway, somehow keeping it all down. He is very aware now, of everyone’s eyes on him, aware of how incredibly vulnerable he feels.

“How about you start cleaning and bandaging his shoulder,” Figueron says to Combeferre. “While I handle the leg?”

Combeferre nods, looking apologetic again as he meets Enjolras’ eyes.

The laudanum mixed with the brandy quickly makes him hazy, and before he quite knows what’s happened, his boots are gone and his bloody trousers cut away, leaving him in nothing but his underthings, utterly exposed.

He loves his friends more than his own life, but everything considered, he’d rather them not witness this. He shifts anxiously under everyone’s gaze, wincing as the doctor cleans the skin around the wound with a burning antiseptic while Combeferre does the same with his shoulder. Fauchelevent, noticing his discomfort, turns toward the other boys.

“Alright, how about we leave Doctor Figueron and Combeferre to do their work and get some food in all of you?” he says, looking around at all of them with a fatherly expression.

They look about to protest that they can’t possibly leave their friend, but Enjolras speaks first.

“I promise, I’ll be alright,” he says, catching each of their eyes for a moment, his voice feeling thick through the power of the drugs. “All of you should rest and eat.”

Even now they follow his word; Feuilly shoots him a worried smile, Courfeyrac squeezes his uninjured shoulder, and Grantaire pauses for a moment before momentarily grasping his hand. For the first time in his memory, Enjolras sees a frightened gleam in Gavroche’s eyes, watches as he leaves Cosette’s side and takes Grantaire’s hand, looking back one more time at Enjolras before they all exit the room.

“Cosette made a room ready for you upstairs,” Fauchelevent says, hesitating in the doorway. “Some of the other boys will have to share, but you’ll be comfortable here. And safe. I promise you that.”

“Thank you monsieur,” Enjolras whispers, emotion flooding him in the face of this man’s generosity, his bravery…in the face of everything that has occurred in the past twenty-four hours.

He smiles and turns to go, closing the door behind him.

“Alright,” Figueron says. “Are you ready lad?”

Enjolras nods, but he’s looking at Combeferre; he’s so used to being the strong one, always the one lifting everyone else up, always being the leader, but right now he’s frightened, so when Combeferre offers his hand, Enjolras takes it, comforted more than he can say by his old friend’s presence.

“Squeeze as hard as you like,” Combeferre says, shooting him a half smile of encouragement. “I’ve got hands of steel. And bite down on this, so you don’t hurt your tongue,” he continues, signaling for Enjolras to open his mouth so he can place the thick cloth inside.

All Enjolras knows in the next moment is excruciating, violent pain, blurry images, and the sound of his own muffled cries that he can’t hold back.

Then, all goes black.

* * *

Around an hour later Valjean raps lightly at his daughter’s door, exhaustion pulling at his eyelids. At her call to enter, he opens the door only to see Gavroche fast asleep on a pallet Cosette has made, grapsing what looks suspiciously like Enjolras’ red jacket. He’s street-smart, that’s for certain, but in the end, he’s still just a child.

“I’m not sure it’s sanitary, that jacket,” Cosette says, brushing strands of Gavroche’s soft blonde hair away from his face. “But I could only get him to let go of it to wash some of the dirt and blood off, and then he insisted on having it back.”

Valjean smiles slightly, a pang of melancholy striking him at the ordeal these boys have been through, but not matter what the future holds, he does not regret for a moment rescuing them, no matter the trouble to himself.

“Papa?” Cosette says, her voice jolting him back to reality, fear swimming in her eyes. “Are you quite sure Marius is alright?”

“I promise you my dear,” he says, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “He is in very capable hands. He’s wounded, but he will heal. And I’ve asked his grandfather to allow you to visit tomorrow.”

“You saved him,” she says, gazing at him with the same adoration that was in her eyes on the day he found her lost and alone in the woods, had given her the doll that still rested on the shelf above her bed.

“How could I not?” he asks, feeling all his emotions brimming forth. “You love him. He loves you.”

Her answer is an embrace so fierce that he’s almost taken aback, but wraps his arms around her in return.

“You saved all of them,” she says. “Marius’ friends.”

“There are still many dead, I’m afraid,” he says, pulling her closer.

“But you saved who you could,” she insists. “You put your life at risk, all so I could be happy with Marius. What on earth makes you so good, Papa?”

“I only want your happiness,” he answers, evading the meat of the question.

“I have to be honest,” she says, releasing him and looking up to meet his eyes. “I went out this evening, looking for you, and for Marius. I couldn’t just sit any longer and wait. I didn’t know where you were, and I was worried Marius had gone to the barricade to fight with his friends...”

“I’m not angry Cosette,” he reassures her. “Worried retroactively, perhaps, but not angry.”

“I saw someone while I was out, near the bridge,” she says. “A police officer.”

Jean Valjean’s heart freezes, but he keeps his face arranged in such a way that Cosette doesn’t notice.

“He looked,” she hesitates, unsure. “He looked about to plunge into the Seine, but my scream stopped him. And then he told me it was dangerous to be out, and he walked me home. He looked so lost, papa, so broken.”

“Did he give his name?” Valjean asks, but he already knows.

“No,” she answers. “But he was dressed all in black, was exceedingly tall with his hair tied back. An intimidating man, I’d say. It was so strange, but I do hope he’s alright.”

The man fitting her description can be no one other than Javert, and Valjean can scarcely hide his shock. What would have possessed a man so driven by his principles to sacrifice his unyielding ideas of right and wrong and end his life by jumping into the depths of the river?

Was it because Valjean had spared him?

“Did he say if anything was distressing him?” he asks.

“Only that he experienced some distressing events at the barricade,” she says. “That was all, really.”

“Well, in any case, I’m glad you caught him in time,” he responds. “You saved a life, Cosette. I’m proud of you.”

She smiles, and Valjean’s shaking heart calms at the sight.

“Is Enjolras alright?” she asks, obviously worried for her beloved Marius’ friend.

“He’s sleeping now, probably from a mixture of laudanum and pain,” he answers, frowning. “His shoulder wound will heal, though his arm will be out of commission for a while. It’s his leg Doctor Figeuron is concerned about. He removed the bullet, but there was some serious muscle damage, and he’s a bit feverish, which means he’s acquired an infection.”

“But he’ll live?” she asks, knowing how much Marius’ friends mean to him.

“Doctor Figueron believes so, yes, as long as the infection doesn’t get out of control,” Valjean says, vowing to check in on the boy before retiring himself. “But he’ll have a difficult recovery. Our world’s changed tonight, Cosette. I’m not quite sure what tomorrow will bring. But rest, we’ll need to be up early to go and see your Marius.”

She nods, kissing his cheek once more before sliding under her covers.

Valjean shuts the door behind him, marveling at how one’s life can change so rapidly in a matter of hours, mind mired down by thoughts of Marius and Cosette, of the boys sleeping in the rooms all around him, and of Javert, who he’s almost certain will not come arresting him now.

But that’s the trouble with the life he leads.

Nothing is ever certain.

The past he’s so long hidden from Cosette, that he’s spent so much time trying to escape…

He fears there will soon be no other option than telling her the truth.

And as he looks up at the bishop’s silver candlesticks before he falls asleep, he prays to God that the morning will bring the answers he needs. 


	4. Fever Dreams

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

 Chapter 4: Fever Dreams

Enjolras knows he’s dreaming.

Yet he still can’t wake up.

Impenetrable darkness surrounds him, but the sounds of gunshots echo in his ears.

Where is he?

Is he at back at the barricade?

A scream pierces the velvet black, and Enjolras feels something warm splatter on his face, running down his skin.

It smells of blood.

It _is_ blood.

He hears a familiar voice and he whips around, watching a transparent version of Prouvaire materialize before him, the bullet hole over his heart easily visible, the blood flaming red against the white specter.

“Jehan?” he asks. “Where am I?”

“In the darkest recesses of your own mind,” Jehan answers, his voice severe, the absolute opposite of the poetry-loving, flower-picking friend Enjolras knows. “You killed me, Enjolras. You didn’t try to save me, you just left me to _die_.”

“I…” Enjolras stutters. “I tried, but you were already dead. I wanted to save you!”

“You killed us with your dream,” Joly’s voice adds, appearing beside Jehan. His head bleeds from being knocked back by flying pieces of the barricade when the canon ball burst through. “With your dream of a free France that won’t ever exist.”

“We followed you.” It’s Bousset now. “And you led us to the slaughter.”

“You promised us the people would come,” Bahorel says. “You swore they would come to arms and join us.”

“I…” Enjolras says again. “I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry.”

He sees Eponine Thenardier appear in the corner of the darkness, but she remains silent, blood gushing from the wound in her side, tears streaming down her face.

“Sorry isn’t good enough, Enjolras!” Jehan insists. “What chance do I have for love now, when I’m dead?”

Quite suddenly they’re all surrounding him, their white shapes the only light in the constant black. Their hands are on his throat, choking him. The ghosts of all their compatriots appear, closing in on him and growing in number.

He can’t breathe, his whole body shaking from emotion and exhaustion.

 _You’re dreaming_ , he tells himself. _You’re dreaming and these aren’t actually your friends. They wouldn’t speak to you this way. They were fighting for France, too, they loved their county. They loved you._

He twists in their grip but as hard as he tries he can’t get a breath, gunshots still going off around him, more blood spattering his skin.

More screams.

“You failed, Enjolras,” Joly says, eyes black with hatred. “You killed us and for _what_?”

Enjolras can’t reply, and black plays at the edges of his eyes until he can’t see anything at all.

 _Wake up_ , he wills himself. _Wake up._

He pushes against their grip, finding he’s spiraling downward and out the dream, and the next thing he knows he’s sitting straight up in bed, a scream ripping from his throat.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire awakes to the sound of a scream.

Specifically Enjolras’ scream.

He’s fallen asleep in the armchair next to Enjolras’ bed in spite of Combeferre’s pleas for him to get some rest in a legitimate bed; Combeferre and Feuilly are in one room while Grantaire is meant to share with Courfeyrac, who has long been asleep and so doesn’t notice his absence. Otherwise, Grantaire knows, he would have told Combeferre, who would have dragged him back to his own bed for fear of him waking up with a very sore neck the following morning.

He bolts in his seat from surprise, eyes flying open, seeing Enjolras sitting straight up in bed with the sheets twisted in knots all around him, his breath coming in ragged, gulping gasps and sweat pouring down his face, blonde hair sticking to his skin. His eyes are wild, bloodshot, and filled with tears, and Grantaire feels fear flood his veins, goose-bumps pricking his skin.

This is not the Enjolras he knows.

The Enjolras he knows is a passionate idealist, a fighter, fire sparking in his eyes whenever he speaks of revolution, of helping the poor and the suffering, of a free and Democratic France.

The Enjolras he knows is serious, calm, intelligent, and determined. He’s harsh, sometimes, tries to keep his emotions in check, but it’s obvious to those who know him that he has so much feeling in him that he might explode. Because how else would the only son of wealthy parents start noticing the suffering of people who weren’t even in his sphere of existence? Enjolras shunned everything he ever knew to fight for a people who needed defending. It’s not just logic and hard work that starts a revolution, Grantaire’s learned, but also a great deal of compassion.

The Enjolras he knows is always stepping up to lead, to inspire, to be a rock for his friends who are like a family. Even when he’s sitting in a corner of the Musain reading or working on a paper, ever devoted to the cause even if the others take a break, he still looks up every so often and quietly smiles at his friend’s antics.

Sometimes he joins in, his laughter mingling beautifully with theirs.

But this…

He doesn’t know what to do with this.

Enjolras is complicated on a normal day.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire half-whispers, not wanting to startle him.

Enjolras jumps anyway, whipping his head around; it’s clear he didn’t notice Grantaire’s presence upon awakening. His blue eyes widen, and Grantaire notices his whole body is trembling.

“Grantaire?” he questions, sounding almost like a child. “Were you sleeping in that chair?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says slowly, his fear growing exponentially. “What’s wrong? You woke up screaming.”

“Dream,” Enjolras responds, pulling the covers around himself with his good arm. “I saw Prouvaire, Joly, Bousset, Bahorel…so many students. I saw Eponine Thenardier, too. So many dead, and they blamed me for still being alive. Blamed me for their deaths. ”

“They would never blame you,” Grantaire says firmly. “You know that.”

Enjolras looks away, not responding, but his eyes are shining with fever, with pain, and with guilt.

“We lost,” he says, trembling even harder. “All the years of work and we lost, and the people, they didn’t come. Why didn’t they come, Grantaire?” he asks, grasping the front of Grantaire’s shirt. “Why didn’t they _come_?”

“I don’t know Enjolras, I don’t know,” Grantaire responds, extremely worried now. Enjolras still grasps his shirt, so Grantaire places a hand over his, desperately trying to calm him down.

To his surprise, Enjolras doesn’t pull away, but stares at him with still wide eyes, eyes that are clouded with fear.

It’s the first time Grantaire remembers seeing Enjolras visibly afraid.

“I thought they would come,” Enjolras mumbles, sweat beading at his forehead.  “I was _certain_ they would come. I was ready to give my life for them, if necessary, ready to sacrifice everything…but they abandoned us.”

“They’re just cowards, Enjolras,” Grantaire says firmly. “It’s not your fault they didn’t come.”

In this moment, Grantaire sees something in Enjolras break. It’s something he can’t quite put his finger on, but he can almost hear it shatter, the sound ringing in his ears.

“What if it doesn’t even make a difference?” Enjolras questions, breathing in deep between his words. “What if they forget the sacrifices our friends made? What if…”

Suddenly a strangled sob breaks forth, a sob that even in his drugged, feverish state, Enjolras tries to hold back, a sound that utterly terrifies Grantaire.

He’s crying.

Apollo is crying, and Grantaire feels his heart crack, knowing that the fever, the laudanum, and the pain have ripped away  Enjolras’ defenses surrounding the trauma they’ve all experienced.

“I killed them, Grantaire!” Enjolras shouts, ripping his hand away. “I might as well have killed them with my own carbine! I killed them and I failed the people!”

“The people failed you!” Grantaire cries, lowering his voice almost immediately, knowing his shouting will only make things worse.

Quite suddenly Enjolras is grasping at his covers, and Grantaire notices blood seeping through the sweat-soaked sheets from the bandage around Enjolras’ leg.

“I’m so cold, so cold,” he says, shivering again, his skin flushing red.

“Should I go get Combeferre?” Grantaire questions.

“No!” Enjolras exclaims, and he’s looking around the room as though he sees people or things that aren’t really there, and Grantaire is certain it’s the ghosts of their dead friends. “Don’t go, don’t leave me alone with them. Combeferre needn’t be bothered…he needs to rest, he needs...”

“Alright, Enjolras, I’ll stay,” Grantaire says, cutting off Enjolras’ ramble. “But I need you to lie down, okay? You’re going to hurt yourself.” Grantaire isn’t used to being a caretaker, doesn’t think he possesses any kind of talent for it, but this is Enjolras, and therefore he has no choice but to do his best.

And then out of nowhere, Enjolras starts clambering out of bed, bad leg, bad shoulder, and all.

“I have to go,” he says. “I have to go turn myself in, it’s only fair to everyone.”

“Enjolras _no_ ,” Grantaire says, pushing him gently back down, Enjolras meeting him with a shaky-yet-intense resistance.

But someone with a raging fever can’t be reasoned with.

“I’m going!” he shouts, pupils dilated so heavily Grantaire can hardly see the irises. “You can’t… you can’t stop me!”

 Enjolras moves to stand before Grantaire can stop him, only making it for a few seconds before collapsing onto the floor and sending Grantaire crashing down with him.

He cries out in agony but he’s still fighting, and Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras’ middle, preventing him from taking off down the hallway.

“Let me go!” he exclaims, blood still soaking through his bandages.

“Combeferre!” Grantaire shouts, not caring that he’s waking the whole house. “Monsieur Fauchelevent!”

It’s only a few moments before Grantaire hears footsteps thundering down the hall; Monsieur Fauchelevent arrives so fast that Grantaire suspects he wasn’t sleeping, followed quickly by Combeferre, his glasses that miraculously survived the barricade jammed crookedly on his nose. He’s trailed by a bewildered looking Courfeyrac and a drowsy Feuilly. Gavroche follows, dragging a hesitant Cosette by the hand.

Enjolras’ arms are still swinging, and from his odd position on the floor, Grantaire can’t pick him up; it’s all he can do to keep from getting struck in the face himself.

“He’s raging with fever,” Grantaire explains. “Started saying he was going to turn himself in, got up, and fell. He’s bleeding through his bandages, too. And I think he’s hallucinating.”

Enjolras tires quickly now, slumping in Grantaire’s grip as Monsieur Fauchelevent and Courfeyrac pick him up, placing him carefully back on the bed.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says in that calming tone Grantaire has never heard anyone else replicate, placing a hand on the side of Enjolras’ face. “Enjolras, it’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Enjolras argues, exhaustion taking over despite his struggle to keep fighting. “It’s not alright, they’re _dead_. _I_ should be dead. I’ve failed everyone, failed France…”

At hearing his friend’s words Combeferre looks like he’s about to cry himself, but he clears his throat, remaining strong for their fever-ridden leader.

“I need to get this medicine in you so you can calm down and I can work on lowering your fever,” Combeferre persists, tilting a teaspoon of the laudanum Doctor Figeuron left behind toward Enjolras’ mouth.

The teaspoon goes flying, smashing against the wall and drizzling Combeferre in laudanum.

But Combeferre isn’t swayed, isn’t even frazzled.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent, can you hold his arms down carefully for me, please?” Combeferre asks. “Grantaire, Courfeyrac, take his legs.”

They all obey, but Enjolras continues flailing even as Combeferre succeeds in tipping the medication into his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire hears Combeferre whisper as he pulls the bottle away. “I’m so sorry, but we’ve got to calm you down.”

Enjolras looks back at him with half-hearted fury, eyelids already drooping from the mixture of his efforts and the incredibly potent drugs.

He turns to Monsieur Fauchelevent (or Valjean or whatever his name really is, Grantaire still means to find out the truth) a question in his eyes.

“Monsieur, do you have some cold rags I could use?” he asks. “I desperately need to get this fever down.”

“Of course,” Fauchelevent answers, but before he can move Cosette is already off to retrieve them, biting her lip in concern. Grantaire’s only spoken a few words in her presence, but he finds he already likes her; she’s welcomed them with open arms just for being Marius’ friends, has constantly asked all evening if there’s anything she can do to help.

“Feuilly, please get the extra bandages Doctor Figueron left from our room,” Combeferre continues, and Feuilly goes without question, eyes mired down with melancholy.

Grantaire watches him go, turning back around at the sound of Enjolras’ voice, so soft it almost isn’t heard.

“I’m sorry,” he utters, nearly asleep now. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Combeferre says softly, placing a hand on Enjolras’ forehead, grimacing slightly at how warm it feels.

“Go to sleep,” Grantaire adds, surprised at the authority in his own voice. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Enjolras nods, head falling against the pillow.

Finally, he’s asleep.

“Grantaire what happened?” Courfeyrac asks immediately, all traces of his usual permanent grin gone as Feuilly returns with the bandages, followed quickly by Cosette with the cold cloths.

“I fell asleep in the chair,” Grantaire tells them, feeling all of their eyes on him. “And I woke up to him screaming and sweating and gasping for breath. He’d had a nightmare, and it just went downhill from there. His fever got worse and he just kept going on incoherently about how everything was his fault, and how he’d failed our friends and the people…” he trails off, hardly able to put the experience into words.

Cosette gingerly places a damp cloth on Enjolras’ forehead and silence falls, broken only by Gavroche’s voice, sounding small in the quiet.

“Is Enjolras going to be okay?” he asks.

“He’ll be alright Gavroche,” Combeferre answers, already re-bandaging Enjolras’ leg wound, which looks worse than Grantaire even imagined. “It’s just going to take a while. But I promise you he’ll be alright.”

Grantaire meets Monsieur Fauchelevent’s eyes for a moment, knowing that while Enjolras’ physical journey will certainly take time, the emotional journey might take even longer.

Because all their lives have changed.

Changed irrevocably.

 

 


	5. Morning of Change

 Les Hommes de la Miséricorde    

 (Men of Mercy)

A/N:  I was reading through the screenplay they released for the film the other day, and noticed there was a bit during the truncated “Turning” scene that was supposed to show Enjolras’ mother and Grantaire’s sister there looking for the bodies, which gave me what I hope is a good idea for this story. Also, to go along with that, I know that all the barricade boys (aside from Marius and Jean Prouvaire) aren’t assigned first names in book, musical, or movie, I’ve had to assign some, as neither Enjolras’ mother or Grantaire’s sister would refer to them by last name. (I’ll admit though, it’s strange, so I’ll always refer to them by last name unless a family member is speaking to them.)

Goodness, I hope that wasn’t too confusing. I do hope you enjoy this chapter…it’s sort of one of those that leads to meatier things in the next chapter, if that makes sense. 

 

 Chapter 5: A Morning of Change

Valjean awakes before the light breaches the sky. He rises from bed, a note slid under his door, no doubt put there by Touissant. It’s from Marius’ aunt, who tells him that Marius has been asking after Cosette and his friends, and would very much appreciate if he would call at his earliest convenience. Considering last night’s alarming wake-up call, he pulls on his dressing gown and decides to check on Enjolras and the others.

The house is silent, his steps creaking against the wooden floorboards. The boys and Cosette are still asleep, so he walks quietly down the hallway, the warmth of the early summer morning seeping in through the windows. The door to the guest room where Enjolras is staying stands ajar and Valjean pushes it open silently, a touching sight meeting his eyes.

Four chairs surround the bed; Combeferre and Grantaire on one side and Feuilly on the other. The fourth chair where Valjean assumes Courfeyrac slept is empty, and he wonders where the boy’s gone. Gavroche meanwhile, is curled up at the edge of the large bed, that red jacket still in hand. Enjolras sleeps too, but his slumber doesn’t look especially peaceful; Combeferre succeeded in getting his fever down slightly, but patches of red run across his skin, pooling in his cheeks.

These boys are a family, Valjean realizes, and they love each other. His heart aches for how young they are, how lost now, how grief-stricken. He went to the barricade to save Marius’ life, but found he simply couldn’t leave the rest of them to their fate, not when there was such a clear opportunity to save them. He feels an unbidden rush of affection for all of these young men, and he can’t yet put his finger on why.

He senses someone behind him and turns around, coming face to face with Courfeyrac.

“Good morning monsieur,” he says, a tired, tight smile on his face that doesn’t reach his green eyes, eyes that Valjean senses were once rather merry.

“Good morning. I thought myself the only one awake,” Valjean answers.

“I woke up a little while ago,” Courfeyrac admits. “And started talking with your housekeeper when I went downstairs for a drink of water.”

“Toussaint always manages to beat me,” Valjean says with a chuckle. “I see you all spent your last few hours of sleep in these chairs?”

“None of us could bear to leave Enjolras alone,” Courfeyrac replies, surveying his friends with a bittersweet gleam in his eyes. “He’s the chief of our revolution, yes, but he’s also our friend, our brother. He’s the best of us, really. And seeing him like that…” he trails off, the memory of Enjolras writhing in pain and overcome with fever, saying that he deserved death imprinted on both their minds.

“Our friend Joly,” Courfeyrac continues. “He’s a medical student too…” he stops again, the fond smile at the thought of his friend sliding from his face, eyes widening in horror at his mistake. “…was… _was_ a medical student too. He would want to make sure that someone was watching Enjolras at all times, with the injuries he has. Joly was a bit of a _malade imaginaire_.” He finishes his sentence quickly, tears glistening in his eyes that he doesn’t quite let fall.

Valjean squeezes his shoulder silently, because there are no appropriate words for what these boys are experiencing.

“None of us know how to thank you enough monsieur,” Courfeyrac says, recovering his voice and clearing his throat. “We’d be dead if it weren’t for you. All of us.”

Courfeyrac’s unasked question hangs in the air between them; he’s no doubt wondering when Valjean’s generosity will give out, wonders what on earth they’ll do now. Their expectation, Valjean suspected, was to either emerge with complete victory or utter loss, not this strange in-between where only some of them survived and were inevitable enemies of the still-standing state.

“I was once in what appeared a hopeless situation,” Valjean says, meeting Courfeyrac’s eyes. “And then someone appeared and changed my life irrevocably. I will not abandon you boys; we will figure something out, I promise. In fact, we can discuss it when Cosette and I return from visiting Monsieur Pontmercy.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes light up ever so slightly at Valjean’s words.

“Marius is alright then?” he asks, hopeful.

“He lost a good amount of blood, but the bullet did go right through,” Valjean says. “He’ll be in pain for a while, but there’s no sign of infection just yet. His aunt said his wrist was pretty badly sprained from his fall, too. But yes, he will be alright. It’s just a matter of recovery.”

“I wish I could go with you,” Courfeyrac replies. “But I know that isn’t plausible at the moment.”

“I think the outside world is a bit too dangerous just now,” Valjean says. “It’s not Marius’ family I don’t trust; I just fear that someone in the street will recognize any of your faces.”

Courfeyrac nods, falling silent again.

“But as soon as Marius is able, I’ll bring him here,” Valjean reassures him. “I know he wants to see all of you.”

“He’d better,” Courfeyrac jokes softly. “Marius is a good man, Monsieur. If I may say so, he would be an excellent match for your daughter. You should have seen him going on about her a few days ago, right in the middle of getting ready for the barricade.” Sadness still rests in Courfeyrac’s eyes, but there is the trace of a cheeky grin on his face.

Valjean’s stomach still twists a bit at the thought of a married Cosette, at the thought of losing her.

 _But maybe,_ a voice whispers. _Maybe a marriage doesn’t mean you’ve lost her. You can still be a part of her life._

“I have no doubt of it,” Valjean answers, pushing away his inner voice. “I’ll tell Toussiant not to answer the door until Cosette and I have returned, just as a precaution.”

Courfeyrac bids him farewell and thanks him once more before returning to his post. And as Valjean advances toward Cosette’s room to awaken her, he knows that soon he will have no choice but to divulge his past to her. He’s always known this day would come, and yet he still fears the results, fears losing her. 

 _She’s your daughter,_ his inner voice says again. _And she loves you, and she’s older now. You need to trust her._

But despite all his advances since his transformation after meeting Bishop Myriel, trust doesn’t come easily.

Must Marius also know the truth?

And these boys he’s taken under his wing?

A part of him that he doesn’t acknowledge says yes.

But a part of him knew that the moment he made the decision to rescue them. He’s needed, he realizes. Needed as much as he was when Fantine died and he took Cosette as his own.

He opens the door to his daughter’s bedroom, content to watch her sleep for a moment, and something strikes him. Yes, this young man who appeared will certainly change things but…

He wants to see her with Marius.

He wants to see her face when it’s lit up in love with another person, because love is a blessing from God, a beautiful blessing that Cosette certainly deserves. She could live a life with Marius, could be safe with him when the time comes for Valjean to pass on from this world.

In this moment, he realizes, he’s finally accepting the fact that his daughter is growing up. She’s a wonderful, sweet soul, and all his fears that something would happen to her, that his past would interfere and rip her away from him, from happiness, fall away for a moment.

It’s the definition of bittersweet.

* * *

 

Flora Enjolras felt sick.

She felt sicker with every step toward the street where the barricade, her son’s barricade, fell. Her husband was not on speaking terms with their son, but she refused to follow in his footsteps. She’s in Paris on her own besides, as business and his anger at his son kept Aubry away from the city. It wasn’t even that Aubry was a monarchist, it was his insistence that their son had gone too far in his political extremism. The memory of Rene storming out the door with eyes ablaze, Aubry’s words still echoing through the large dining room, never leaves her mind for long.

_“If you want to throw your life away for some hopeless cause that is bound to fail, then you will not speak to me further! You shame your family!”_

Rene was 22 then, and home for Christmas from university. Aubry had not gone so far as to disinherit their son (he was the only child, after all) but they had not spoken a word to each other in three years.

But she could never give up her relationship with her son; he was born with a fire in his eyes, and she knew there was no stopping him.

She was proud of him, proud of his compassion and unquenchable desire to help the poor and suffering of France, to help secure freedom for all.

But this…this isn’t what she’d expected. No matter how just the cause, no mother wants her son to die before her, no mother wants to retrieve his body from a massacred barricade.

She knows the exact moment when she reaches the barricade, because the stench of blood drenches the air and a mix of national-guard soldiers and policemen mill about. She closes her eyes, pushing down her overwhelming urge to burst into tears, and walks forward.

But she knows he’s dead.

Other women are there too; some are scrubbing the blood away from the bricks and the sight turns her stomach. Others kneel down next to the bodies, and unrestrained sobs pierce the otherwise eerie silence. She doesn’t ask the police any questions and they don’t bother her, but the anger toward them bubbles up in her throat, hot and unforgiving. It doesn’t matter to her that they were doing their duty…it only matters that all these boys are dead, and her son along with them; her bright-eyed, blonde-haired, beautiful boy.

Only she doesn’t see him in the line of bodies.

She meets the gaze of a younger woman with long brown hair, likely around thirty or so, who looks as lost as she does.

Flora’s eyes dart frantically up and down searching for her son, her heart beating impossibly fast in her chest. Have they degraded his body in some way? Is he in prison? She stops short when she hears one of the officers start a conversation with the imposing police inspector; she leans in closer but keeps her eyes trained on the ground so they won’t suspect she’s listening.

“Inspector Javert,” the younger officer says, and the older man looks up at him, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, but allows his underling to continue. “We believe there are some insurgents missing, sir. We certainly don’t know all of them by name, but by our initial count when this began they aren’t all here.”

“Do you know of any specifically?” Javert asks, at rapt attention now.

“Yes sir,” the officer responds, looking nervous. “The leader, Enjolras…”

“Yes, I know him,” Javert says, cutting him off, rubbing the top of his head almost unconsciously as if it pains him. “His name and his face. He’s always seeing fit to give speeches and getting his lieutenants to hand out pamphlets and generally causing all kinds of congestion around the city. I can’t help but know him. He’s not here?”

“No sir,” the officer says. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

“Then he’s escaped,” Javert says, and Flora notices a strange, almost misplaced panic in his eyes. “Likely along with a few others.”

“And are they not to be treated as enemies of the state, sir? As traitors?”

“Yes, you fool. But we don’t know all of their names, and the powers that be will be most interested in the leader, so that should be your focus,” Javert snaps, turning quite suddenly away from his fellow officer and stalking off inside the Café Musain.

Flora releases a breath she didn’t know she held, leaving the barricade as quickly and quietly as possible.

There’s a chance he’s alive.

There’s a chance her son is _alive_.

She doesn’t care that he’s a wanted man and all that entails, she only cares that he’s _breathing_. And her husband’s frustration be damned, she will protect her son with everything in her power; but she knows even someone as stubborn as Aubry wouldn’t want his own son dead, no matter how strong his fury.

She walks a distance away from the barricade because the sight of all the dead boys, her son’s friends, burns her eyes with horror. She turns however, at the sound of a frightened voice behind her.

“Excuse me, Madame?” the girl she noticed earlier asks. “I…I couldn’t help but notice that you were looking for someone at the barricade, and that you might have overheard the officers’ conversation.”

Flora catches the younger woman’s eyes, something in them telling her that she isn’t a spy; that she’s only searching for a loved one as well.

“My son wasn’t there,” she says carefully. “I don’t…I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

“Is your son…” she begins, the gently takes Flora’s arm and pulls her a bit further away, her voice a whisper. “Is Enjolras your son?”

“I…how do you know his name?” Flora asks, bewildered.

“My brother Grantaire was at the barricade,” she explains. “He spent nearly all his time with the other boys at this café. He brought me here one night, shortly after I moved to Paris with my husband, and I met his friends. Grantaire had a bit too much wine, and Enjolras and Combeferre even helped me get him back to his rooms near here. And I can tell you exactly who is missing from that line of bodies.”

Flora breaths in deep, comforted by the prospect of an ally in this situation.

“Yes,” she tells her, voice so soft that she leans in close, afraid that it will carry with the wind. “Yes. He’s my son. Do you know how many are missing?”

“Five,” she answers. “Enjolras, Combeferre, Marius, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly. But they must…they must be together. I’m sure of it.”

Flora takes the woman’s hand, determined.

“Let’s find a café away from here, somewhere quiet, where we can talk,” she says. “I’m Flora.”

“Adrienne,” she replies.

“I don’t know how,” Flora says. “But we must find where they’ve gone.”

Adrienne nods, following her new companion down the cobblestone streets.

* * *

 

Marius isn’t expecting the beautiful sight before his eyes when he awakens for only the second time since Monsieur Fauchelevent brought him home. In the middle of the night when he’d awoken, utterly terrified and asking after his friends and Cosette, his grandfather’s face greeted him, but now…

Now it was Cosette herself, and despite the pain, despite the drowsiness, his heart swells with delight.

“Cosette?” he questions, just to make sure he’s not hallucinating.

“Yes, Marius,” she says, taking his hand as carefully as a piece of china. “It’s me. Papa brought me as soon as he received your aunt’s letter this morning.” She turns and smiles at her father, who makes himself small in the corner of the room, watching them with a benevolent expression.

“Cosette,” he whispers. “I feared I’d never see you again.” He meets her eyes, stomach sinking when he thinks of his friends. “Enjolras!” he exclaims, a hazy memory of seeing Enjolras bleeding on the couch opposite him when he’d woken up the first time invading his brain. He sits up, hit by a surge of sharp pain in his abdomen.

“Careful,” Cosette chides, helping him lay back down. “You’ll start bleeding again if you do that. Enjolras is at our home recovering.”

“Is he alright?” Marius asks, anxiety seeping into his veins. “What about the others? I remember seeing Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly, Grantaire, and Gavroche.”

“They’re all with us,” Cosette answers. “Enjolras was shot twice; once in the shoulder and once in the leg, and the bullet lodged in his leg which caused a bit of an infection, but he will be alright, we’re making sure of it. The others are scratched up but safe, I promise you.”

Marius breathes out, relief flooding him. His friends… _some_ of his friends, he corrects himself, are alive.

“And the rest…the rest are dead?” he asks, tears gathering in his eyes.

“I’m afraid so,” Monsieur Fauchelevent says, sadness in his tone as he finally speaks up. “I’m so sorry, Marius.”

“You have nothing to apologize for monsieur,” Marius insists. “You saved my life, saved my friends’ lives, at the risk of your own. And you have brought Cosette to see me. You have gone far beyond the call of duty.”

He pauses, tired already from just this small bit of effort. He’s in his old bedroom, he realizes, and it feels strikingly strange; he’s been estranged from his grandfather for so long now, has been away from this house so long that it hardly feels like home and yet it does all at once. He vaguely remembers his grandfather’s wrinkled hand stroking his forehead in the night, a far cry from the man who’d been so embarrassed by his political actions just days ago in the square. A part of him still resents his grandfather, but the larger part is overwhelmed with love; despite the injustices he did Marius’ father (and Marius himself, for keeping his father away,) he’s still the only living parent Marius has ever known.

For the first time since beginning his political activism, since finding out the truth about his father, Marius feels safe in this house, his anger receding at the thought that his grandfather tossed all his grudges aside, welcoming him with open arms when he needed it most.

“Papa has promised to house and keep your friends safe,” Cosette tells him, shyly taking his hand and squeezing it. “We’ll take good care of them for you.” Her voice is wistful, and Marius feels a rush of love for her all over again at seeing how much she cares about the fates of his friends, his brothers.

“As soon as you’re able you are free to come visit them,” Fauchelevent adds. “I feel that’s safer than bringing them here, at present.”

Marius nods, a swoop of unbidden fear running through his stomach.

“You think they’re after us, then?” Marius asks.

Cosette looks a smidge unsettled at his words, but she does a good job masking it for his sake.

“I’m not sure,” Fauchelevent says, worry shading his eyes. “But I don’t want to take any chances now. I don’t know if they’ll notice some of you are missing, but I’m almost certain they’ll notice Enjolras isn’t there; he was the leader, and they’ll know his name and his face, which might lead them to realize that the rest of you are gone as well. It’s best to lay low for the moment.”

A knock at the door interrupts their next words, and his grandfather enters with a smile on his face.

“Oh you’re awake, Marius,” he says gleefully, coming over to the side of the bed and standing next to Cosette. “I was hoping you would be, so you could talk to Monsieur and Madmoiselle Fauchelevent. They’re such kind people, you know, I discovered that while speaking with them when they arrived, and you couldn’t have picked a lovelier lady,” he continues, patting Cosette on the shoulder. “The doctor just arrived to check in with you, so I’m going to have the pleasure of having a glass of wine with the Fauchelevents while he sees to you, does that sound alright?”

“Yes grandfather,” Marius replies, returning the elderly man’s smile.

Cosette presses a kiss to his forehead, promising to return as soon as the doctor leaves, and Marius watches his grandfather thank Fauchelevent once again for saving Marius’ life. He falls against the pillows and waits for the doctor, a sharp, unyielding sadness pricking his heart when he thinks of his friends who didn’t survive; Joly, Jean Prouvaire, Bousset, Bahorel…so many students who loyally attended their meetings and fought by their side. Yet some of his friends are alive, and Cosette is still miraculously in his life. But they lost the fight, are in a potentially very dangerous situation.

The thought of Cosette’s comforting smile warms him, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this lost and found all at once. 


	6. Chapter 6

 Les Hommes de la Miséricorde    

(Men of Mercy)

 

  Chapter 6

Enjolras wakes to a gentle hand laying a cool, damp cloth on his forehead; the hand is too soft for a man’s, too small, and when he opens his eyes he sees Cosette hovering above him, a worried frown pulling at her lips.

“Madmoiselle?” he asks groggily, bewildered at her presence.

“You’re finally awake,” she says, brushing his hair back from the cloth in a gesture that reminds him strikingly of his mother. She must think he’s dead, he realizes, and wishes he could find a way to let her know he still lives.

“I’m sorry you seemed to have earned the post of sitting by my bedside,” he says, sitting up ever so slightly against the pillows when she removes her hand. “But you don’t have to, I’m alright.”

“You’re not alright,” she replies, an almost indulgent smile on her face. “And I volunteered. You’ve been asleep for more than half the day, and your friends refused to leave their posts, so my father forced them downstairs to eat something and I volunteered to sit with you.”

He opens his mouth to protest, surprised when she cuts him off.

“No arguing,” she says firmly. “The doctor came by a while ago and said it was essential to keep cold cloths on your head every hour to get your fever down. It wouldn’t do to have you succumb to an infection after you’ve gotten this far, would it?”

Enjolras falls silent, taken aback. This girl, he thinks, is unlike any of the young ladies he’s seen Courfeyrac flirting with in the wine shops.

“I don’t suppose we’ve been properly introduced,” he answers after a moment. “Although I don’t imagine you pictured meeting Marius’ friends like this, either.”

“Staying in my house and riddled with bullet holes, in your case?” she asks. “No, not really. I imagined a nice glass of wine or something of that nature.”

It’s a joke, he realizes, an offering of friendship, and he laughs lightly.

“It’s nice to meet you then, Cosette,” he replies. “Circumstance and all.”

“You too, Enjolras,” she says, unhindered warmth and amusement in her tone.

He smiles weakly at her, feeling a surge of white-hot pain shoot through his shoulder and down his leg, setting his body on fire. He closes his eyes against the growing agony, visibly shuddering. It feels as if knives dig into the tender flesh of his wounds, sharp and unending.

“Oh,” Cosette breathes, jumping up and retrieving the bottle of Laudanum from the table. “Here, Combeferre told me to give you some of this if the pain was bad.”

“I’m…”

“Not fine?” she questions, raising her eyebrows and pouring some of the foul-tasting liquid into the teaspoon. “No, you’re not. Open up.”

She half-glares at him and he gives in, allowing her to tip the medicine into his mouth, blanching at the taste.

“You are a stubborn one,” she says, still kind. “You’re going to have to learn to put up with some mothering for a while, you know. Your friends are worried sick over you. Gavroche even slept with your ruined jacket.”

Enjolras nods, allowing her to adjust the pillow as he lays back, willing the Laudanum to work and cease the throbbing in his shoulder and leg. He thinks of tough, street-smart Gavroche clutching his jacket while he slept, his heart flooding with affection for the little boy the friends of the ABC had essentially taken in as their own.

“I’m infamously not talented in that area,” he says. “I was injured in a riot once when I was giving a speech; the police came and it turned bad in moments. I cracked a few ribs, and I think Combeferre and Joly were ready to kill me by the time I was healed.”

A wave of sadness crashes over him when he hears himself say Joly’s name, and seeing the accompanying face in his mind only makes it worse.

“Have you been to see Marius?” he asks, changing the subject for the sake of his own emotions. He remembers his nightmare, remembers Joly’s eyes black with hatred, Prouvaire’s harsh voice. He has a faint memory of awakening, of Grantaire grasping his hand and trying to calm him. “Is he alright?”

“Papa and I were there this morning,” Cosette answers, pulling the blankets up around him the moment she notices he’s shivering. “He’s weak from blood loss and he’s in pain, but the doctor says he’ll be fine, he just needs some recovery time. He was lucky he didn’t get an infection as well.”

“Better me than him,” Enjolras says, feeling the Laudanum taking effect, the sharp edges of his pain dulling a bit.

“You really shouldn’t say things like that,” Cosette tells him, serious. “You didn’t deserve this infection. Marius would be angry if he heard you. I could scarcely get him settled when we left, he was so concerned about the lot of you, so eager to be here.”

Enjolras meets her eyes for a moment, understanding what his friend saw in her that day in the Luxembourg Gardens; even in their brief conversation, he knows she’s one of the most pure-hearted people he’s ever come across. Enjolras has never had the time or the mind-set for romantic love affairs; he was far too interested in his education, in his homeland, in revolution. His friends were all he’d needed.

But despite his annoyance at Marius’ distraction, he thinks Cosette might be just right for his friend.

“He would tell me I was being overly self-sacrificing again,” Enjolras says. “He often feels the need to tell me that when I stay at the Musain far past everyone else.” He pauses, a question on his tongue. “Did I…I seem to remember making a rather bad escape attempt last night. I remember falling on the floor beside the bed and knocking Grantaire over…”

“You woke up in the middle of the night with a raging fever,” she tells him, and as she speaks the fuzzy memory becomes clearer. “Grantaire was sleeping in the chair and said you woke up from a nightmare and were disoriented, which ended in you thinking you needed to turn yourself in to protect the others. I don’t think Grantaire’s slept anywhere but in this chair since you’ve been here, and as soon as you woke up in that state your other friends haven’t either.”

Enjolras warms, the shivers subsiding ever so slightly when he thinks of his friends. They are unceasingly loyal, and he never thought he’d meet a group of such like-minded young men; their different qualities fused together made an extraordinary, cohesive unit.

He couldn’t have asked for better friends, of that he’s certain.

He thinks of Grantaire, who hasn’t left his side since they escaped the barricade, a memory flashing in his mind with vivid color.

_“You do not believe in anything.”_

_He glares with disdain at Grantaire’s bottle, the bottle he’s tried so hard to pry from his friend’s fingers on more occasions than he cares to count._

_“I believe in you,” Grantaire says resolutely, locking eyes with him and refusing to look away._

_And when Enjolras meets his gaze, he’s shocked to see there is indeed a spark of belief there, bright as the flame in the nearby fireplace._

_He tells Grantaire to sleep off his absinthe, and yet Grantaire presses him further, listing off reasons why he was just as capable of an errand as any of their other friends._

_“Be serious,” Enjolras says, testing his resolve._

_“I am wild,” Grantaire responds, that same spark in his eyes._

_And so Enjolras sends him to the Barriere du Maine, and when he arrives to check on the progress, finds him playing dominos._

And yet he still never gave up on Grantaire, never forgot that spark he saw in his eyes that day, the spark that remained through his profuse apologies when he noticed Enjolras’ presence; he was cynic, a self-proclaimed skeptic, but Grantaire’s loyalty to his person speaks volumes, Enjolras thinks. He just can’t figure out why Grantaire thinks so highly of him, why the pessimist would cling to the optimist. But then, Grantaire has always been the most bewildering of all his friends.

“I am blessed to have such friends,” Enjolras says. “I am lucky that some of them, at least, survived,” he continues, wistful, grief piercing him like the bullets from yesterday. “And you are kind to sit with me, stubbornness and all.”

Cosette smiles again, taking the cloth on his head and replacing it with another. “It’s the least I can do for Marius’ friends,” she says.

“I’ve known Marius for a long time now, and unlike some of our friends,” Enjolras tells her grinning a bit as he thinks of Courfeyrac, sadness swooping through his stomach when he thinks of Jehan and his love poems. “He was not in love a day in his life until he met you. So it must be something quite special.”

Despite himself, Enjolras feels a bittersweet smile tweak his lips at the memory of Grantaire and Joly teasing Marius in the café a few days ago. Despite Marius essentially only speaking of Cosette to Courfeyrac, word had spread and eventually they all knew of his secret meetings with Cosette in the gardens behind her house. 

_Marius, what’s wrong today? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost._

_I am agog! I am aghast!_

He’d been frustrated with some of his comrades then, frustrated that they were talking about anything other than the barricade when it approached so quickly, frustrated that Marius had his head in the clouds, but it was also the last night when they’d all been together in the café, and he holds onto the memory tightly, his friends’ laughter ringing in his ears. They’d been so hopeful that night, so full of life, absolutely ready to fight for their country, for freedom.

He feels the guilt haunting his every movement, guilt his friends would reprimand him for having, but he has it nonetheless.

Combeferre’s entrance interrupts whatever Cosette’s reply is, and he leans on the doorframe, surveying his friend.

“How is the most stubborn patient in all of France?” he asks, quirking his eyebrows.

He’s paler than usual, Enjolras notices, and he knows he’s not the only one who hasn’t slept well.

“Stubborn,” Cosette teases with a glance at Enjolras. “But I managed to get him to bend to my will.”

“Ha,” Combeferre chuckles. “I never thought that possible.”

“You’re not humorous,” Enjolras remarks dryly.

“Well I’m going to go check on Papa,” Cosette says, rising from her chair, resting a hand briefly on Enjolras’ arm. “You behave, alright?”

“I shall try my best mademoiselle,” he answers, watching as she leaves and Combeferre takes her place in the chair.

Combeferre was the first person he’d met upon his arrival in Paris at seventeen, and so his friend perhaps knows his faults and his insecurities better than anyone, and Enjolras feels very much as if Combeferre is attempting to read his mind.

“You splattered me in Laudanum last night, you know,” Combeferre says by way of starting the conversation. “I’m still having trouble getting it out of my hair.”

“I have a very faint memory of knocking the spoon out of your hand,” Enjolras answers, sheepish.

“It’s alright, I’m teasing you,” Combeferre replies. “You don’t exactly know what you’re doing when you’re overcome with fever.”

His eyebrows knit together in the middle as he lifts the blankets briefly and takes stock of Enjolras’ bandages; he looks back up, a stern expression on his countenance. “Now you listen to me, Enjolras. I know you aren’t good at being a patient, aren’t good at letting other people do things for you, but you’ve got to listen to me and to the doctor and to all of us. You’ve got to rest, because you’ve got a long recovery ahead of you. Bed rest, first of all, until the infection is completely gone, and it will be several weeks before we can take your arm out of the sling. And even when you can move about again you’ll need a cane for a while because of your leg.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, nodding, but he senses Combeferre isn’t quite finished.

“You won’t relax,” he continues. “When you sleep you aren’t sleeping well, and if it takes me shoving more Laudanum down your throat for you to get proper rest then so be it. You know I’ll do it, so don’t test me.”

“I just…I don’t know how to relax in light of all this,” Enjolras replies, thinking it foolish to be anything other than honest with a friend who knows him so well. He hates how lost he feels; he’s always had such focus, such direction, and he isn’t sure how to handle the opposite feeling. “Our friends are dead and it’s my fault, Combeferre. I long ago accepted the fact that we might not emerge with victory, but I hoped our work would at the very least move things forward, make an impact. I was so certain the people would join us…”

“How can you say that this is your fault?” Combeferre says, his tone growing softer now, but he’s still firm. “You are our leader, yes, but we were in this together. All of us. Joly, Jehan, Bahorel, Bousset, none of our fellow compatriots who died would want to hear you talk this way, Enjolras. We always knew we might fail, but we also knew it was time to take action.”

“I just…” Enjolras says, trailing off, his hands twisting the sheets, a burning pain spreading through his stomach.

He’s the orator of the group and yet words fail him. He’s the chief and yet he feels so incredibly lost. He wants to reassure Combeferre instead of Combeferre reassuring him. His own words come back, mocking him.

_“Everybody keep the faith. For certain as our banner flies, we are not alone. The people too must rise…”_

“I know,” Combeferre replies, catching his eye and holding the gaze, a hand resting on Enjolras’ arm in a gesture of comfort. “Believe me, I know. We just…we have to take this one day at a time now.”

Neither of them mentions the fact that the absence of Enjolras’ body was likely noticed by now, that even as they speak the police hunt him, hunt anyone who escaped with him. Voices outside the door draw their attention.

“You’ve never been timid a day in your life,” Courfreyrac says, but concern is evident in his tone. “What’s the matter?”

“He’d want to see you,” Feuilly adds with a fatherly air. He relates to Gavroche, Enjolras knows, because he was once a gamin on the streets, too. Gavroche’s parents might still be alive, but that doesn’t make him any less an orphan.

“Go on in there Gav,” Grantaire urges, and Enjolras sees him look inside through the crack to see if he’s actually awake.

There’s silence for a moment, and then Grantaire takes Gavroche by the hand and pushes him gently into the room. The three of them stand back a bit, giving the boy room.

“Hi, Enjolras,” Gavroche finally says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking mildly uncomfortable in his freshly laundered clothing.

Gavroche is a talkative child, always full of information and spunk and ceaseless courage, and seeing him so downtrodden pains Enjolras. But it’s only fair; not only did he witness the deaths of the school boys who were like his brothers, but he’d also witnessed Eponine’s Thenardier’s death, and Marius had told them long ago that Gavroche was her little brother, the little brother her parents had kicked out onto the streets for lack of food to go around.

And none of those are things a ten-year-old should see.

“Come up here Gavroche,” Enjolras says, patting the spot next to him on the bed. The Laudanum is making him drowsy again, but he blinks back the oncoming exhaustion, clenching his teeth against the fresh wave of pain.

Gavroche complies, looking a smidge more confident as he approaches and climbs up on the bed next to Enjolras, keen eyes surveying his bandages.

“I’m sorry about your sister Gavroche,” Enjolras hears himself say, emotion rising in his throat. “I’m sorry about everything. I never should have let you stay…it was irresponsible of me.”

“Wouldn’t have left if you told me to,” Gavroche mutters, a familiar defiance in his tone. “I wanted to fight for France. Marius tried to get Eponine to go too, but she wouldn’t. Thenardiers are stubborn.”

Enjolras can’t help but smile at those words, and reaches out, his fingers touching Gavroche’s face affectionately. Then quite suddenly there’s a set of small arms around his neck, carefully avoiding his wounded shoulder. Enjolras wraps his good arm around the little boy, hugging him as tightly as possible without causing himself more harm.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Gavroche says, face buried in the material of Enjolras’ shirt, borrowed from Valjean.  

“So am I. And I’m also glad Monsieur Fauchelevent saved you from that bullet,” Enjolras replies, looking straight into Gavroche’s eyes when he pulls back. “Next time there’s gun fire near you, stay back when we tell you, do you hear me?”

Gavroche nods, visibly relaxing.

“You can come in you know,” Enjolras calls out to the other three. He’s tired now, but he wants to stay awake for at least a bit longer, if only to reassure his friends.

Feuilly, Courferyrac, and Grantaire file in, each taking their respective chairs from the night before.

The absence of their friends rings loudly in the silence, and Enjolras can feel all their eyes on him.

“You should all sleep in beds tonight, alright?” he says, looking at each of them in turn. “Cosette told me you were all in here sleeping in these chairs.”

“We were worried, Enjolras,” Feuilly says. “You can’t stop us from worrying.”

“Or from sleeping in chairs,” Courferyac adds, smirking at his friend, a twinkle momentarily overcoming the melancholy in his eyes.

“You’re impossible,” Enjolras replies, but the fondness in his tone is evident.

“So I’ve been told,” Courfeyrac answers. “By you, actually.”

“Worry aside,” Enjolras continues. “Indulge me and sleep in your beds for a least a little while. Take shifts watching me.” He glances at Grantaire, who appears to be contemplating something. “You especially Grantaire, I know you haven’t slept in a bed since we’ve been here.” He pauses, softening. “But thank you for calming me down last night. It’s hazy, but I do remember knocking you over.”

“I’m resilient,” Grantaire says with a grin. “And you’re welcome. Can’t have your running off under the influence of a fever.”

“Speaking of fevers,” Combeferre says, with the air of one who is about to lecture another. “You need one more dose of Laudanum and sleep or you’ll wake up like that again.”

He very clearly wants to say “you’re not out of danger, Enjolras” but with a glance at Gavroche, refrains.

“Wait,” Grantaire says, and everyone turns, looking at him curiously. “I need to tell all of you something. I was going to wait for Marius, but we’ll just have to tell him later.”

He quickly rises and closes the door, listening for a moment and making sure no one stands nearby.

“What’s going on Grantaire?” Feuilly asks. “Why are you worried about someone hearing?”

“Because,” Grantaire says, looking far more serious than Enjolras has ever seen him. “I overheard something while we were in the sewers.”

* * *

                

Javert was…

Honestly he wasn’t sure what he was.

He’d let a revolutionary get away.

He’d let Valjean get away.

He’d planned on being dead and yet here he is, still alive.

Papers cover his normally immaculate desk, and other officers buzz around him, talking of nothing but the fallen barricade and its escaped fallen leader. Sketches of Enjolras are already being drawn up; soon they’ll be plastered all over the city.

 _Wanted alive for treason_ , they read.

The blood wasn’t even cleaned from the streets, the bodies not even in their graves, and the government was already eager to make a very public example of Enjolras and potentially any other insurgents found with him.

But they crave the blood of leader, and only a firing squad awaits that boy if he’s found. A firing squad in the center of Paris so all can see, so they can all forget any burgeoning ideas of revolution that these boys inspired.

 _They’re school boys_ , Javert thinks.

 _Traitors_ , he corrects himself.

_Children._

_Rebels._

He shakes his head, thinking back to the sewer, to Valjean.

Valjean, who carried one insurgent on his back.

Valjean, who’d let him go free.

Valjean’s adopted daughter, who accidentally saved his life.

…but had Valjean also rescued the other rebels? Hidden them in the sewer tunnel until Javert turned away?

 _Yes_.

_No._

He slams his hand loudly on the wood of his desk, causing several of his underlings to look in his direction for what feels like the thousandth time that day.

He has absolutely no proof that Valjean saved the other boys, has no proof that they’re hiding in his house right now, Enjolras included.

He only suspects.

And with the current state of his psyche, suspicion isn’t enough.

Because he wants to avoid Valjean at any and all costs, wants to cease thinking of him completely.

Except he can’t because the damned man has invaded his brain and broken his code and turned his blacks and whites into irreversible shades of grey.

Damn him to hell.

Except the tiny voice inside Javert’s head tells him that he might be from Heaven.

_Is he from heaven or from hell?_

The voice of the younger officer assigned to him for shadowing (much to his chagrin) interrupts his musings.

“Inspector Javert?” Bertrand asks, timid and unsure. Possibly even frightened. “Are you alright monsieur? You look a bit ill. Were you not up all night at the barricade?”

Javert looks up, instantly irritated.

“Yes, Bertrand, I was,” he answers. “But I’m fine. I’m simply tired from all the chaos.”

Bertrand looks like he doesn’t believe his superior, but he walks away nevertheless because he’s too afraid to argue.

Javert thinks again of throwing himself in the Seine.

But somehow he knows it’s too late for that now.


	7. Revelations

   Les Hommes de la Miséricorde                                 

     (Men of Mercy)

 Chapter 7: Revelations

Grantaire feels five pairs of eyes staring back at him.

“Did you…hear me?” he asks slowly. “I said I overheard…”

“We heard you,” Combeferre says, placing a friendly hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “We’re just…processing.”

“Let me get this straight,” Courfeyrac says, running his hands through his tuft of dark brown hair. “The inspector who infiltrated our barricade, the inspector we all thought killed by Monsieur Fauchelevant himself, _accosted_ Monsieur Fauchelevant outside the sewers and let him go with Marius?”

“Yes,” Grantaire answers. He knows full well it sounds insane, but he saw what he saw.

“And called him by the name Valjean and… 24601,” Feuilly adds, perplexed.

“French prisoners are branded with numbers,” Enjolras adds, finally speaking up. “Usually on their arms.”

“That’s what I remembered,” Grantaire says, nodding. “But if he’s sort kind of ex-convict, I mean, that’s almost in our favor, isn’t it? At first I was suspicious, but…”

“He’d certainly know how to keep out from under the police,” Combeferre finishes. “Unless he’s actually dangerous, although he hardly seems it…”

“He’s not,” Gavroche pipes up, ever ready with a piece of information. “I’ve known him for a while…him and Cosette, they give money and food to the poor a few times a week, me included. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Unless they’re a member of the National Guard,” Courfeyrac says. “He’s a damn good shot.”

“But why would the inspector let him go?” Enjolras asks, his brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make any sense, especially if he had Marius in tow. It would have been obvious he was one of us.”

“We need to confront him about it,” Grantaire says, firm. “If he’s said he wants to do whatever he can to help us, then he needs to be honest about who he really is.”

“Even if he was a convict,” Feuilly muses, looking around at his friends. “I don’t know that it makes me trust him any less. We’re all well versed in the injustice of the French penal system, and he saved our lives with every risk to his own. But I agree Grantaire, talking to him seems best.”

“Providing he wants us to know his true identity,” Combeferre remarks. “But who are we to care what his past is, if he saved our lives?”

“I agree, but before we speak to him we need to impart this information to Marius,” Enjolras says. “It only seems right, considering that he’s Monsieur Fauchelevent’s potential son-in-law. Although I don’t know how that’s possible at the moment with him at his grandfather’s home and us unable to safely leave this house.”

“If I know Marius,” Courfeyrac says, with the tiniest hint of his usual smile. “And I think I do, he’ll find his way here soon enough, no matter how injured he is. Cosette tells me he’ll hardy settle down for worrying about us. Man’s stubborn.”

“Cosette told me that as well,” Enjolras responds, his eyes drooping slightly, heavy with a toxic mix of pain and sleep, patches of red popping up on his skin again.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says almost immediately. “You need rest; your fever’s going back up. How’s the pain?”

“It’s…” Enjolras trails off, clenching his teeth against a fresh onslaught.

“You need more Laudanum,” Combeferre says, reaching for the bottle and leaving absolutely no room for argument.

An expression of weary defiance crosses Enjolras’ face but he nods, shutting his eyes against the foul taste of the medication.

“Go get some sleep in some actual beds, the lot of you,” he murmurs. “That’s not a request.”

“Absolutely, Apollo,” Grantaire teases lightly, melancholy filling him to the brim; he can’t stand seeing Enjolras like this, and if he’s honest, the thought of anything happening to him fills Grantaire with more fear than seeing the National Guard burst through the barricade.

But Enjolras is already asleep.

Silence, anxiety, and grief cloak the room, hanging over their heads like the blackest rain cloud. They’ve been so busy escaping from the barricade and worrying over Enjolras and Marius that there’s been little time to process what they’ve been through, to process the massive loss that hurts far too much for discussion just yet. Gavroche has fallen asleep so quietly that none of them noticed, and Grantaire retrieves him with gentle hands and curls him up in a vacant chair in case Enjolras wakes up thrashing from another nightmare.

“Combeferre,” Feuilly says seriously. “Is Enjolras honestly going to be alright?”

Feuilly’s never been one to mince words, and Grantaire watches Combeferre meet his eyes directly over his glasses, a shimmer of very real fear there.

“I…he should be,” Combeferre answers. “I just…I need this fever to go down because it could turn ugly before I even know what’s happening. Monsieur Fauchelevent sent a note to Doctor Figueron asking him to come tonight so he can check in. Marius is lucky; I don’t know how he escaped that sewer without an infection, but I’m immensely grateful he did, especially with that abdomen wound.”

“Probably because Monsieur Fauchelevent carried him,” Grantaire says, a rush of hot guilt spreading through him. “Enjolras got stuck with me.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” Courfeyrac says, harsher than Grantaire’s ever remembered hearing him. “You were ready to get shot with him if that National Guardsman army general hadn’t changed his mind and helped us instead. And you carried him all the way here with almost no assistance.”

“He’s right,” Combeferre replies. “We can’t blame ourselves…we…it won’t bring our friends back, and it won’t make Enjolras or Marius better. Enjolras feels guilty enough for all of us, and I did my best to soothe that.”

“Rationally he knows we were all in this as much as he was, that all of us knew what we were getting into,” Feuilly says wisely, hand absentmindedly smoothing Enjolras’ covers. “But the emotions of a person are less forgiving, and I’m certain the fever isn’t helping.”

“They’ll be hunting us, won’t they?” Grantaire asks, unable to keep that particular idea to himself anymore. “For all of us, but for Enjolras especially. All the police in the city know him, know he led us.”

“We’re all considered traitors,” Combeferre answers. “They’ll have noticed Enjolras’ absence for certain, and that inspector seeing Monsieur Fauchelevent with Marius complicates things…” he pauses briefly, unsure how to continue. “We’re together and we’re alive, and right now that’s what matters. We will keep each other safe.”

Silence falls amongst them again, the ghosts of their so recently deceased friends present in their overwhelming, crushing absence.

* * *

 

Valjean is near a set of shops looking for spare clothing for the boys when he lays eyes on the first one.

A poster with a strikingly accurate sketch of Enjolras’ face.

_Wanted alive for treason against the state_ …

The barricade fell barely two days ago and they’re already hunting the boy.

Valjean decides that when Cosette goes to visit Marius tomorrow he will speak privately with M. Gillenormand; sooner rather than later, he imagines, these boys will need to get out of Paris, and the assistance of Marius’ grandfather would be an immense help. Grandfather and grandson might have had a falling out over politics, but now the elderly man was relieved beyond measure that Marius was alive; he’d offered assistance to Valjean in any way he could, and took to Cosette almost immediately; Valjean was quite sure he was already planning the wedding.

“I’ll be damned if Marius or any of those boys come to harm if I am capable of preventing it,” he’d said. “I might not understand their actions, but they’re just school boys.”

Valjean steps closer to the poster, amazed at its accuracy. Enjolras is wanted alive, he suspects, so that the government can make a very public example of him, and Valjean feels a sharp surge of protective instinct flood through him. He’s only known these boys for a few days, but affection for them already burgeons in his heart. He’d caught Grantaire looking at him for longer than seemed normal this morning while they ate, and a sharp anxiety twinges in his stomach; he wonders if Grantaire overheard his confrontation with Javert.

His past and his potential future are colliding, and he knows now that he cannot wait until he’s gone from this world to tell Cosette the truth.

And if Cosette knows, Marius will have to know.

And if Grantaire heard him, there’s no way around the truth. But, he tells himself, they are also running from the law.

A voice snaps him not so gently out of his musings and he turns around, a young police officer standing behind him.

“That’s the leader of the last barricade that fell,” the officer says, stepping up next to Valjean. “He wasn’t among the bodies. You’re looking at the poster awfully intently monsieur, have you seen him?”

“Oh, no,” Valjean responds, hoping he sounds nonchalant, believable, and not like he wants to run away as fast as his legs can take him. “I read in the paper about the barricades, but I’ve never seen this boy. He looks young,” he says casually, stepping back.

“Ruddy schoolboys,” the officers says, and Valjean thinks he looks like no more than a schoolboy himself. “There’s a great deal of dead bodies because of them and their ridiculous ideals.” His eyes look down, landing on the rather large amount of bags in Valjean’s hands. “I see you’ve been doing some shopping, monsieur. Do you have a big family?”

“Seven sons,” Valjean says, smiling. “One daughter. It’s a bit…hectic in our house at the moment, so I’d best be getting back.”

“Of course,” the officer says, apologetic. “But if you see this rebel, do come into the station.”

“I will,” Valjean says, tasting the lie on his tongue before walking away at a normal pace so as not to arouse suspicion.

He rounds the corner and goes out of sight, watching as the officer walks away and exhaling a breath he’d been holding for longer than he realized. He remains there for a moment, cautious eyes flitting over a pair of women standing near the poster, carefully observing the officer depart before breaking into whispers he can’t make out from his position. One is younger probably somewhere around twenty-eight with long brown hair, but the other woman is a bit older, long blonde hair shining in the sunlight, her clothes suggesting she comes from a wealthy background. She turns her head, and he’s taken aback by her eyes.

They’re bright, piercing blue, and they look identical to Enjolras’.

He moves closer, feigning a glance at one of the shops, their soft conversation floating into his ears just enough to make sense of.

“There’s…” the blonde woman says, very clearly trying to keep her composure but only partially succeeding. “There’s already posters up.”

“That must mean they’re alive,” the younger woman says in a whisper. “I just…”

“Don’t know where,” says the blonde woman, who looks over at Valjean again. She catches his eye and he waves them over. They’re hesitant at first, but after a moment the older woman takes the brunette’s hand and walks over to him.

“Monsieur,” says the older woman, one brow raised. “Were you listening to our conversation?”

“Am I correct in assuming that the both of you are relatives of boys who have been at the barricade?” he asks in response.

“Are you a police officer?” she shoots back, and he knows instantly that this must be Enjolras’ mother; the resemblance is uncanny in more ways than one.

“No, Madame,” Valjean says, very nearly laughing at the irony. “I am not. But I need you to answer my question.”

His eyes dart around the surrounding area, but there’s no sign of any more officers.

“Yes,” she whispers, a fragile sound edging into her voice. “Yes. My son was there, and her brother,” she continues, pulling the other woman forward slightly. “Rene Enjolras and Lucien Grantaire.” She says the names so quietly Valjean barely hears them.

“They’re at my home,” he says, matching her volume level and leaning in closer. “I helped a few boys escape, your son and your brother included.”

“Who?” the younger woman asks.

“Enjolras, Grantaire, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Marius,” Valjean answers. “And their young friend Gavroche.”

“Just who you said,” Enjolras’ mother breathes, glancing at Grantaire’s sister. “What kind of state are they in? Are they hurt? Is Rene hurt?”

Valjean hesitates, and that’s all the evidence Enjolras’ mother needs.

“How badly?” she asks, absentmindedly squeezing her companion’s hand. “What happened?”

“Enjolras was shot twice,” he says, gentle as possible with such harsh news. “Once in the shoulder, once in the leg, and he acquired an infection, but I summoned a doctor who is very positive about his prognosis as long as the infection doesn’t get out of control. I promise you Madame, they’re well taken care of. The others are fine…or as fine as would be expected.”

“Why would you rescue them?” she insists. “I don’t…”

“My daughter is in love with Monsieur Marius,” Valjean says, putting a very careful hand on her shoulder. “And when I saw my opportunity to save some of the other boys, I took it.”

“Thank you,” Madame Enjolras says, softening. She reaches out for his hand and clasps it briefly, trusting him.

“You are a blessing monsieur…” Grantaire’s sister says, realizing she doesn’t know his name.

“Fauchelevent,” he finishes. “And please, come with me. My carriage is just down the street.”

And so they follow.

* * *

 

Combeferre doesn’t expect the sudden, horrified shout that echoes through the room.

Across from him, Grantaire jolts from his slumber, Courfeyrac’s eyes go so wide they look about to pop, Feuilly jumps, and Gavroche’s hands clench into fists at his sides.

Enjolras sits up, the scream turning into a hoarse cough on his lips, his breaths shallow, ragged, and sharp.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, heart throbbing with agony at seeing his best friend like this, and fights to keep his emotions in control. “Enjolras, you were dreaming, it’s alright.”

But it’s not.

Enjolras’ cheeks are flaming red and he’s shivering to the point of convulsing, goose bumps racing up and down his arms in droves. Enjolras looks up at him, eyes shining with a fever that rages like wildfire.

“Combeferre?” he asks. “Is that you?”

“Yes Enjolras, yes,” he says, placing a hand on Enjolras’ head, heat radiating from his skin.

“Tell,” Enjolras stammers, a far cry from his usual eloquence. “Tell Joly to come over here and help you.”

Combeferre feels a metaphorical fist punch him in the chest at the sound of their dead friend’s name, at the idea that in his feverish state, Enjolras has forgotten he’s dead.

Or worse, he’s hallucinating.

“Enjolras,” he asks, slow and deliberate with his words. “Do you see Joly?”

“Of course,” Enjolras responds, annoyed. “He’s right outside the door.”

Combeferre closes his eyes for a moment, a whirlpool of dread starting in his stomach and growing with each second.

“Enjolras,” he says, forcing the long withheld tears from his voice. “Joly died at the barricade.”

“No,” Enjolras insists, angry now. “He’s right there. You see him, don’t you Courfeyrac? Grantaire? Feuilly?”

“Enjolras,” Feuilly says, voice tremulous with emotion. “He’s not here.”

“He is!” Enjolras roars. “He…”

A furious convulsion cuts off his protest and he falls against the pillow, wrapping his arms around himself, blonde hair sticking to his forehead. Before Combeferre even asks, Cosette appears at his side with cold cloths.

Enjolras, however, is not ready to cooperate, thrashing violently when they come near.

“Grantaire, Courfeyrac, hold him please,” Combeferre says. “Feuilly, if you will please take Gavroche, he doesn’t need to see this.”

All three do as Combeferre directs, and for once Gavroche doesn’t argue.

Combeferre pulls the blanket off and Enjolras attempts to curl into himself, but Grantaire and Courfeyrac’s hold on him makes it impossible.

“We need to cool his whole body down, and he’s not going to like it because he’s freezing even if his body is far warmer than it should be,” Combeferre says. “So keep a firm hold on him.”

“Papa hasn’t returned with the carriage yet,” Cosette says, a resolute expression on her face. “But I’m taking a fiacre and retrieving Doctor Figeuron, and then dropping a note at Marius’ grandfather’s home. He needs to know what’s happening.”

“Thank you, Cosette,” Combeferre answers, grateful.

“I’ll go as quickly as possible,” she answers. “And I’ll tell Toussaint to bring more towels up.”

The moment she’s gone Combeferre looks at Courfeyrac and Grantaire; terror flashes in their eyes, but they’re determined to help their friend.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, leaning down and speaking softly so as not to alarm him further. “I’m going to remove your shirt so I can try and cool down your body, alright?”

For a brief moment the man beneath the fever emerges and nods, limping against Grantaire and Courfeyrac’s grip, exhaustion winning out.

But Combeferre knows full well it won’t last, and he silently prays to whoever might listen that Enjolras survives the night.

A/N: Before anyone freaks out, I promise you I’m not going to kill Enjolras, not after I’ve already saved him! His getting worse leads to a couple of other planned plot points, so never fear. J


	8. Into the Nightmare

  Les Hommes de la Miséricorde    

(Men of Mercy)

 

Chapter 8: Into the Nightmare

Cosette’s fiacre comes to a stop outside the Gillenormand residence and she pays the driver, exiting as quickly as possible. She’d already gone to Doctor Figeron’s home and alerted him to Enjolras’ condition; he’d taken his own carriage there, promising his haste. She runs up the stairs as rapidly as her shoes and dress allow; she knows it’s terrible manners to call without first sending a note, but she has no other choice; Enjolras is in trouble, and Marius needs to know.

She takes hold of the brass door handle and knocks, hearing the sound of footsteps almost instantly. The door swings open, the housekeeper’s face appearing before her.

“Madmoiselle Fauchelvent,” she says, eyes widening in surprise. “What brings you here? Is everything alright?”

“No, actually,” Cosette says, hating that she has to stand on ceremony at a time like this. “One of Marius’ friends, Monsieur Enjolras, he’s fallen very, very ill, and I wanted…”

“Of course,” the housekeeper responds, opening the door wide. “I’ll show you up to Monsieur’s room immediately and then let Monsieur and Madame Gillenormand know. They’re dining at the moment; they haven’t eaten properly since Monsieur Marius’ return.”

“Thank you Madame,” Cosette answers. “I felt Marius should know, although I hate distressing him.”

“He’s hardly settled since you and your father left,” the housekeeper confides. “His aunt, his grandfather, and the doctor keep trying to get him to sleep, and I think he finally did just out of exhaustion, but he’s been so worried about his friends.”

Cosette nods, thanking her once again before quietly entering Marius’ room while the housekeeper informs Monsieur and Madame Gillenormand. It’s against what’s proper, she’s sure, to be alone with Marius right now, but she couldn’t care less about rules in light of the situation.

“Marius,” she says, hating to wake him when it finally looks as if he’s sleeping peacefully. “Marius my love, I need you to wake up.”

“Cosette?” he questions, eyes blinking open slowly. “Cosette…what?”

“I have some news for you, but promise you’ll stay calm so you don’t hurt yourself,” she says, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder so he can’t sit up too fast and aggravate his wound.

“What is it?” he asks, a jolt of tense energy veiling his eyes. “Cosette…”

“Enjolras is ill,” she replies softly, as if that might help ease the blow. “His infection’s gotten worse and his fever is so high he’s hallucinating. I’ve sent Dr. Figueron to our home, but I thought…I thought you needed to know.”

“I have to get there,” Marius says without a moment of hesitation. “I have to return home with you. I need to be with my friends, I need to make sure Enjolras is alright.”

“Marius,” Cosette argues. “You can’t, you’re injured. Traveling in a carriage…”

“Cosette,” he answers sitting up very carefully so he won’t alarm her and taking one of her hands in his own. “I cannot simply sit here while I know Enjolras could be, could be…” he trails off, unable to complete his thought.

She knows what the missing word is, though.

_Dying._

“I’d do anything in my power to get you there,” she says, squeezing his hand. “But I don’t know how to do it safely.”

  
“Cosette, I’m not capable of resting while I know Enjolras is in this state, while my other friends are there holding vigil and I am here, apart from them,” he replies, looking directly into her eyes. “So many are already dead, I can’t…” an unintentional sob mars his words and Cosette feels her heart shaking in her chest, tears filling her own eyes.

A rush of love for Marius overtakes her, compassion and affection for his friends growing within her soul. She wraps an arm around him gingerly, embracing him as best she can when he’s injured, and he presses his face into her shoulder, still not letting go of her hand.

How can she deny him?

But how can she get him there?

Her thoughts are interrupted by Monsieur Gillenormand’s entrance.

“Madmoiselle Fauchelevent!” he exclaims. “Marie informed us that one of Marius’ friends is gravely ill from his wounds, is that true?”

“Yes monsieur,” she says, turning to face him, still grasping Marius’ hand. “I was riding for the doctor and thought to come and tell Marius.”

“That is very kind of you,” he replies, looking over Marius with worried eyes. “I do hope he’ll be alright, there’s certainly been enough death around us lately. Is there anything I can do?”

“Grandfather, I must go to my friends,” Marius says without hesitation. “I _have_ to see them.”

“Marius,” Gillenormand answers, disbelief prevalent in his voice. “How can you possibly see fit to leave this house in your state? You are injured and the doctor has demanded bed rest, your wound has not even begun healing…”

“Cosette’s home is but a short ride from here,” Marius persists. “I am thankful for everything you’re doing for me, I’m so happy that you are back in my life, but I must go to them. I’ll be careful,  I swear to you.”

Cosette watches as Marius meets his grandfather’s eyes, sees something pass between them that she can’t quite name, sensing that Gillenormand will give in to Marius’ request.

“I do not like it,” the elderly man finally responds. “But I shall permit it because I know you won’t rest until you see them. You are stubborn, Marius.” There’s a reprimand in his tone, but it’s also tinged with fondness. “Although getting you there will be difficult and you must swear to be cautious and follow all directions. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Marius says, taking his free hand and grasping his grandfather’s arm affectionately. “I promise.”

“I shall tell Pierre to ready the carriage and I will ride there with you and Mademoiselle Fauchelvent,” he adds, turning toward the door, concern and uncertainty etched into his features.

“Thank you for coming to tell me Cosette,” Marius says, watching him go. “You are perhaps more wonderful than I even knew.”

Cosette smiles, blushing.

“It’s the least I could do,” she says, eyes running from his face and down to the thick bandage wrapped around his abdomen, visible even through his shirt, a symbol of the battle he fought, of the cause he stood for with his friends.

The cause that nearly stole him from her, the cause that would have succeeded if not for her saint of a father.

But it’s a cause she understands; the story of her past is murky with so many pieces still missing, but even though she was only a child then, she will never forget her time in the inn with the horrible Thenardiers, of nearly always being starving, of walking about in rags and wooden shoes that made her feet bleed. She remembers the night her papa rescued her and took her away, knowing full well she’s blessed, that most children in her situation were not so lucky.

Marius and his friends fought for children like her, fought that they might have food to eat, a warm bed to sleep in…that a better world could and would exist, establishing equality for all.

She believes in that cause.

But she’s also relieved that her Marius still lives, and she silently prays that he’s not forced to mourn yet another death.

* * *

 

_Enjolras stands amongst the shattered glass and splintered wood of the upper floor of the Café Musain, his surviving friends gathered around him. He’s dressed again in his red jacket and black trousers, the white shirt beneath stained pink with blood, the tri-color floret crumpled, the edges turned inward now as if it too, has lost all hope._

_He feels Combeferre firmly grasp one of his hands, Grantaire hesitantly taking the other. Courfeyrac’s hand is on his right shoulder and Feuilly’s on his left. Gavroche stands at Grantaire’s side, his small hand resting in Grantaire’s larger one. With all of them touching him he feels how very alive they are, feels the blood pumping through their veins, feels their warmth, feels their palpable grief as they stare around at their meeting place, their second home._

_But where is Marius?_

_As if in answer to his silent question, Enjolras hears slow, pained footsteps making their way up the stairs, and they break contact, turning around to see the newcomer._

_It’s Marius, as Enjolras suspected, his steps heavy with loss._

_He embraces each of them, coming to Enjolras last and hugging him tightly, though with his sprained wrist and Enjolras’ injured shoulder, it’s a bit awkwardly done. Enjolras sees a flash of blonde hair and realizes Cosette is at the bottom of the stairs, but she’s giving them their time alone with each other._

_With the memory of their dead friends._

_Quite suddenly the sunny sky outside grows black, and Enjolras’ eyes widen as white specters appear in the growing darkness._

_Jean Prouvaire sits in the corner, bright red wounds dotting his white, hazy form. He’s writing poetry in one of his notebooks as he had a thousand times, but when he looks over at them his eyes are black rather than light brown, the shy, genuine twinkle replaced with tears of blood._

_Joly and Bousset sit nearby, Bossuet’s arm flung around the medical student’s shoulder. And when they look up, their eyes are as black as Jean Prouvaire’s._

_Except they speak rather than remain silent, their voices harsh, unforgiving and full of malice._

_“I’m an unlucky sort,” Bossuet says, locking eyes with Enjolras, his usual good humor lost. “I suppose my unlucky death doesn’t come as a surprise to you, then, doesn’t bother you.”_

_“Of course it does!” Enjolras exclaims. “You have to know it does.”_

_“The marble lover of liberty doesn’t care what he sacrifices for revolution,” Joly adds. “What’s one less doctor in the world to him, for freedom, even if the doctor was one of his closest friends? Never mind that the freedom we fought so hard for was a lie. The people abandoned us, Enjolras.”_

_“No, no,” Enjolras whispers, and he hears Combeferre whispering in his ear._

_“It’s a dream my friend, we’re trapped in a dream.”_

_In a nightmare._

_“These are not our friends,” Marius echoes from beside Courfeyrac. “They are twisted representatives of them.”_

_“To Enjolras!” Bahorel’s voice shouts, his own white form appearing in the corner, surrounded by a knot of students with transparent glasses of wine. “To Enjolras, my friends, who survived though we did not, who **ran** from the barricade, who instructed  our surviving compatriots to run.”_

_Bahorel turns to face him, a sinister glint in eyes that are usually always ready for a joke or a laugh, constantly ablaze with his mischief._

_“Bahorel,” Enjolras says in a reverent whisper. “I didn’t…I wanted to save who I could. So we could fight again, so we could try again. You never wanted to give up before, not until France was free.”_

_“And save them you did,” Bahorel says, the expressions of the students surrounding him growing somber, growing angry. “And for what?” he spits. “So they can hide away forever from those who hunt you? You’re a dead man, Enjolras, and so are they. You’ve only delayed the inevitable. Our dream? It was a fantasy, and we should have_ **known** _.”_

_Enjolras falls hard to his knees, burying his face in his hands; the life of his surviving friends warming him, the ghosts of his fallen friends a cold wind on his face. A dry, strangled sob forces its way from his throat, drenched in a scream._

* * *

 

An awful, gut-wrenching half-scream, half-sob shoots through the silence like a bullet the moment Monsieur Fauchelvent opens the door; Flora Enjolras’ stomach sinks, hand trembling slightly from its place in Adrienne’s.

Something terrible has happened to Rene, because even though she’s never heard him make such a sound before, she knows it came from him.

So despite manners, despite the fact that she’s never been in this house before, despite the fact that she’s just met Monsieur Fauchelevent, she bolts up the stairs and toward the source of the sound, her hand slipping from Adrienne’s.

She picks up her skirts, taking the stairs two at a time, the urgent, worried words of Fauchelevent and his housekeeper fading into nonsense behind her. She bursts into the room her son’s name on her lips.

“Rene!” she shouts, the sight before her worse than she even imagined; the man she assumes is the doctor hovers above her son, who is twisting in every direction even as two of his friends hold his arms and legs. He seems unaware that he’s aggravating his wounds, unaware of anyone’s presence but whatever specters haunt the nightmare from which he’s awoken. She sees the blood from his wounds seeping through the bandages on his shoulder and his leg, spreading slowly.

The boys turn at the sound of her voice, and the only face she recognizes looks up. Rene’s written to her of all his friends, complete with names and tales of their antics, but Combeferre’s the only one she’s met in person; Rene brought him to visit during his first break from university.

“Madame Enjolras?” Combeferre asks, surprised. “What…”

“Monsieur Fauchelevent found me,” she says. “Along with Adrienne,” she looks around the room for the boy she thinks might be Grantaire, and they land on the young man with near-black hair standing beside Combeferre, his eyes lit with terror. “Grantaire’s sister.”

The boy looks up, a question in his eyes, and she knows that it’s Grantaire.

“Adrienne’s here?” he asks. “How?”

But her answer dies in her throat the moment she looks closer at her son, who has ceased writhing and instead gasps for breath.

“Joly, Jehan,” he whispers, eyes clouded with a mixture of fever, grief, and pain. “Bahorel, Bossuet, all of you, I’m so sorry.”

The doctor looks at her, nodding toward Rene, silently telling her to go to him. The two boys holding him down (she assumes they are Courfeyrac and Feuilly) let go but don’t back far away for fear he’ll start fighting again; she hears Monsieur Fauchelevent and Adrienne walk in, but all of her attention focuses on her son. She sits down beside him on the bed, taking one hand in her own, gentle as if she were picking up a piece of heirloom china, hoping she doesn’t startle him. He jerks slightly, but looks up and meets her eyes, the terror of the dream melting away and putting him back into a shaky reality.

“M…mother?” he asks, clearly unsure whether she’s real or if she’s a product of his fever-driven hallucinations.

“Yes darling, it’s me,” she answers, leaning forward and kissing his hot, sweat-soaked forehead. “I’m really here. And your friends are here, and Monsieur Fauchelevent’s doctor is here, and they want to help you, want to take care of you and make you better.”

“I need to make sure my friends are safe,” he insists, holding tightly to her hand. “I need to make sure they’re all safe. Bahorel said, he said they were in danger.”

“It was a dream love,” she says, brushing the wet blonde tendrils of hair from his forehead. “It was only a dream.”

“They aren’t safe!” he cries. “They aren’t.”

She hears Monsieur Fauchelevent come to her side, his voice benevolent and filled with warmth.

“Enjolras your friends are safe here,” he says, looking directly into Rene’s eyes. “I promise you and I swear to you that I will keep them safe.”

She watches her son nod, watches him relax ever so slightly, his tense muscles giving way.

“We need to get your fever down Rene,” Flora continues. “Will you let us help you?”

He nods again, squeezing her hand. It’s breaking her to see him like this, her passionate, courageous, determined son.

It’s breaking her to see him so broken…

Taking advantage of his calmer state, the doctor administers another dose of Laudanum and Rene’s eyes flutter closed again. She moves further onto the bed, lifting his head and cradling it in her lap as she’d done when he was ill as a child. Silence falls amongst the crowded room, broken after a few moments by the sound of slow footsteps making their way up the stairs.

“Careful, Marius,” a female voice says. “Please, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

A young man and a young woman enter the already crowded room, which is now full almost to bursting. The young man is hunched over slightly, one hand resting gingerly on his abdomen.

“Cosette,” Monsieur Fauchelevent says, looking utterly surprised, a look which he doesn’t not wear well. “How on earth did you get Marius here?”

“I insisted monsieur,” Marius replies, and my grandfather rode with us here, in his carriage. He’s waiting downstairs with your housekeeper. I had to come and see my friends to see about Enjolras.”

He winces in pain and Courfeyrac pushes an empty chair toward him, helping him sit down.

“What’s going on?” Marius asks, looking around at his friends, eyes landing on Enjolras, and Flora notes the devastation shading his eyes. “How is he?”

It’s quiet again for a moment until the doctor steps forward, looking grim.

“I…his infection is much worse than before,” he says, melancholy lacing his words. “With Combeferre’s help I’m going to do the best I can to lower his fever and rid his body of the toxins, but he…there’s the possibility he might not make it.”

Flora feels suddenly, violently ill, feels as if someone has struck her directly in the stomach, feels the world spin around her. This cannot happen, not to her boy, not after he survived the barricade, not when he’s meant to change the lives of countless people in his fight for the freedom of France. Tearing her eyes away from Rene’s sleeping face, she glances up at the sound of the door opening again, watching as Grantaire walks out of the room, followed quickly by his sister. A boy with a tuft of wavy brown hair follows, and she guesses, though she’s not sure how, that he’s Courfeyrac. The boy who must be Feuilly reaches for Combeferre’s hand because he’s visibly shaking now, and a small blonde boy who can’t be more than ten races from the room, the door slamming hard against the wall.

“No!” Marius exclaims, almost angry. “That…no.”

“I’ll do my best son,” the doctor answers, taking the pile of damp towels Fauchlevent hands him. “I promise you.”

Flora holds her son tighter, hoping that his promise is enough.

A/N: Again, I’m going to promise you here that I am not, repeat, am not going to kill Enjolras. Again, his getting worse ties into a couple of plot points, one of which will be revealed in the next chapter. He will make it, I swear to you.

 


	9. Moments

 Les Hommes de la Miséricorde    

(Men of Mercy)

 

  Chapter 9: Moments

In a matter of minutes Combeferre finds himself alone with Enjolras; Feuilly’s gone to check on Gavroche, Courfeyrac and Grantaire’s sister have gone to see where Grantaire went when he slipped out, Cosette has practically dragged a disgruntled Marius to settle in to the last guest room, Monsieur Fauchelvent is speaking with Monsieur Gillenormand, and Madame Enjolras is speaking with Doctor Figueron.

Combeferre suspects Grantaire has gone looking for wine, worry swooping through his stomach at the sort of drinking this news might bring on their friend, but he’d locked eyes with Courfeyrac for mere seconds and Courfeyrac immediately went after Grantaire. It’s a good thing, because Combeferre is rooted to this chair.

There’s no way he can leave Enjolras’ side now, not unless someone forcefully removes him.

His best friend might die.

His best friend…

He can’t finish his thought the second time.

His wrenches his eyes off the floor and they land on Enjolras, who sleeps fitfully on the bed; cold cloths cover his forehead, his chest, his arms, the bedcovers and borrowed sleeping pants twisted around his legs. He assisted Doctor Figueron in putting fresh bandages on Enjolras’ leg and shoulder, a new white bandage now wrapped around his friend’s forearm where the doctor pushed the lancet into his vein.

“Bloodletting is usually my last tactic,” he’d said sadly. “Especially considering how much blood your friend has already lost, but I’m going to give it a try.”

Even in his drugged, exhausted state Enjolras had fidgeted unconsciously, and so Combeferre held him down, hating it all the while. Combeferre could have easily debated the doctor for an hour on the pros and cons of bloodletting, and the opinions of some of the most prolific medical minds, but there hadn’t been time. No one’s certain of its efficacy, but desperate times, and all of that.

He takes Enjolras’ hand and grasps it, eyes moving over the paler-than-usual face, feeling the tears gather behind his eyes. Enjolras is the brother he never had, the friend with whom he shares everything, someone who understands his mind better than he even does, sometimes.

He’s read so many books, so many essays, listened to so many lectures, but none of his professors, no author, has prepared him for the possible death of his greatest friend. Ever since the moment Enjolras spoke of revolution he knew this might happen, but the idea and the reality are entirely different.

The others will look to him, he knows, if Enjolras dies, and he doesn’t know how well he’ll be able to stand up against such a shattering loss, doesn’t know how he’ll cope, but knows even still, that he’ll have to find a way to be there for his remaining friends.

“Dammit, Enjolras,” he whispers. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go. If we were to die, we were to die together at the barricade, not like this, with you dying from wounds and leaving the rest of us behind, leaving me behind. We’ve lost _enough_ , how can we lose you too? How can _I_ lose you?”

His memory flies backward, sending him to the very first time he’d met Enjolras.

_Combeferre takes the stairs two at a time up to the second level of the Café Musain; although the bottom level is noisy and crowded, he’s found the top floor strangely quiet and perfect for reading or studying. There’s a small knot of men at a table drinking wine and playing cards, and then one lone blonde man reading very intently in the corner, his drink almost untouched. For whatever reason his eyes catch on the boy, who looks close to his own age (eighteen), although still younger, somehow. He has the look of a student about him, and he’s different from the crowd that usually frequents this café, which is essentially in the slums of Paris._

_He sits down at a nearby table and opens his book, finally having time amidst his first term of medical studies to read something for pleasure, although he suspects most people might not think reading philosophy is something to do in one’s leisure time, but he doesn’t mind. He reads for a few minutes until he hears a voice speaking to him._

_“Condorcet?” asks the young man he’d noticed earlier. “That’s an interesting choice. What do you think of his Paradox?”_

_“I agree wholeheartedly so far,” Combeferre answers, looking up in surprise, eyes flitting over to the speaker’s texts. “Robespierre and…” he takes note of the peeling edges of the closed book. “It looks as if you’ve read that Rousseau a few times.”_

_“I don’t think I could read it enough,” he answers. “But I thought I’d verse myself in Robespierre as well, see what the man himself had to say.”_

_“You’re a republican then?” Combeferre asks, lowering his voice a bit._

_“I am,” he replies matching Combeferre’s tone, blue eyes blazing with such intensity it takes Combeferre aback. “And you?”_

_“Freedom is the greatest thing mankind can wish for,” Combeferre says in answer, and the corners of the student’s mouth turn upward in a soft smile._

_Combeferre notices that the barmaid serving the group of men in the corner is making eyes at the young man he’s talking to, but he doesn’t seem to notice in the slightest, enthusiasm entering his tone as he continues._

_“You’re a student then?” he asks._

_“A medical student, yes,” Combeferre says, smiling himself, having the sudden, warm feeling that he’s just made a friend. “It’s just my first term, so I’m a bit new to Paris.”_

_“Mine as well. Law. I moved here from the south,” the young man answers, putting out his hand. “Enjolras.”_

_“Combeferre.”_

And so their lives changed on that otherwise ordinary day in the Café Musain.

A hoarse voice interrupts Combeferre’s musings and he looks down to see Enjolras opening his eyes again.

“Combeferre?” he asks, voice barely audible.

“Yes, Enjolras,” he says, leaning closer. “It’s me. How are you feeling?”

“I…tired,” Enjolras answers, obviously about to say “fine” out of reflex. “Did I…is my mother actually here?”

“She is,” Combeferre says. “She’s just outside speaking with the doctor.”

Enjolras relaxes a little at that, reassured that his mother was not simply another of his fever-driven hallucinations.

“Combeferre?” Enjolras asks again, sounding more lucid, more like himself than he has in hours. “Am I dying?”

He’s never lied to Enjolras, not once.

But now he can’t stop himself.

“You aren’t well,” Combeferre replies diplomatically, squeezing his hand. “But we’re doing everything we can, Enjolras, I swear to you. Doctor Figeuron says if we can just get you through tonight, if we can just get this fever down, you’ll be just fine. You don’t give up on us, now, alright? ”

Enjolras catches his eye and nods, his emotions unreadable, but he keeps a firm hold of his friend’s hand. Combeferre senses that Enjolras knows he isn’t being entirely truthful, but they let it rest.

“Sleep Enjolras, please,” Combeferre pleads. “That will help heal you.”

Enjolras nods again, the smallest hint of fear in his expression, fear that only Combeferre would recognize as such.

“I’m so cold,” he says. “Is it possible to remove these wet cloths?”

“For now,” Combeferre says, making to remove them and pulling the blankets up around his friend’s shoulders. “I’ll need to put them back on in an hour or so.”

“Alright,” Enjolras says, sleep coating his eyes again. “I’m so sorry for worrying you, for being difficult…thank you for…”

“Don’t talk like that,” Combeferre says, ever gentle. “Just sleep, and we’ll all be here when you wake up.”

With that, Enjolras sends a weary smile at his friend and closes his eyes, once again lost to sleep. Combeferre buries his face in his hands, allowing his emotions to pour forth in the silence, tears pushing over the edges of his eyes and flowing down his cheeks quiet and unabated. He doesn’t even hear the door open, but after a few moments feels a pair of distinctly feminine hands wrap around his trembling shoulders.

“It’s alright Combeferre,” Madame Enjolras says. “It’s alright.”

She’s crying too, her voice broken at the mere thought of losing her child, and Combeferre can’t even imagine what that’s like, losing someone to whom you gave life. He feels a rush of fury toward Enjolras’ father, for his distance and his lack of empathy toward his son’s cause.

“I should have protected him,” Combeferre whispers to her. “I should have found a way, I’m so sorry.”

“You know you couldn’t,” she tells him. “You know he wouldn’t have let you. His cause and his friends are his entire world, and he’d rather die than have any of you lose your lives. No one wants to die, but he was willing to, for this, if it came to it, even if it breaks my heart. All of you were willing.”

Combeferre turns and embraces her in return, praying to whatever divine force might exist that his friend will live.

Because a world without Enjolras would be a much darker place.

* * *

 

Grantaire doesn’t even really know where he’s going…he only knows he’s going. He can sense, he thinks, where Monsieur Fauchelevent…Valjean…whatever his name actually is, keeps the wine.

_He might not make it…_

_Yes he will_ , Grantaire thinks silently. _He’s Enjolras, he’s…he can’t die._

_He can._

No.

_Yes._

No.

_He’s not actually made of marble, you fool. You might not want to admit that your shining, blazing Apollo-charismatic leader of men, inspirational soldier for the republic, idealist, intellectual, friend-is human. But he is, and his body fights against a sinister force allowed in by the bullets of a government who only wanted to knock an angel from the heavens._

Physically speaking, Enjolras is just as human as he is, Grantaire knows, even if the insane lack of sleep their chief runs on might attest otherwise. He spots a door next to the kitchen and opens it, seizing a candle from the table as he goes, because there’s no sunlight past the small set of stairs. He reaches the bottom, peering around.

A wine cellar, just as he’d thought. It’s small, but it’s something.

He’s not exactly proud of intruding so blatantly on their benevolent, albeit mysterious rescuer’s hospitality, but he needs something, _anything_ , to numb the terror striking his body like lightning. He pulls what looks like the least expensive bottle down from the rack (he’s not _that_ bad a guest, and Monsieur Fauchelevent likely won’t miss this one), opens it, and swigs directly from the bottle. Minutes pass and he’s about halfway through the bottle when he hears the door open.

“R?” Courfeyrac’s voice calls. “Are you down here?”

He doesn’t answer and takes another swig instead, Courfeyrac’s footsteps growing closer.

“Grantaire,” he says, cautious, gentle, as he approaches. “Put the bottle down.”

Grantaire laughs, bitterness wrapping around the sound.

“That’s Enjolras’ line isn’t it?” he asks, feeling Courfeyrac sit down next to him. “Interesting tactic, you coming down here,“ he snaps. “I expected Combeferre or Feuilly, not you, who’s always glad to share a bottle of wine with me.”

“Not when one of our best friends is…” he strays from his words, and Grantaire feels a rush of affection for his friend biting through his irritation. Courfeyrac is always genuine, always free with his emotions, and that rings true now, in light of their tragedy, in light of another one on the horizon.

“…dying,” Courfeyrac finishes, courageous enough to complete his thought, courage Grantaire wishes he possessed.

“Possibly,” Grantaire corrects, drinking from the bottle again. “Possibly dying. Leave me to this Courfeyrac, it’s what I’m good for. Go back to Enjolras, to Combeferre, to Feuilly, to Marius, to Gavroche. I’m certain you’re missed.”

“Not without you,” Courfeyrac persists, stubborn. “You’re one of us too. You always have been.”

“No I’m not!” Grantaire shouts, causing Courfeyrac to jump. “I’m not.”

“You _are_ ,” Courfeyrac says, unmoving, an uncharacteristic anger in his tone. “You are, and don’t let me hear you say that again. Give me the bottle, Grantaire, and let’s go back upstairs. Enjolras would want you there.”

“I believe in _nothing_!” Grantaire says, voice rising higher now and he’s not certain why; he’s never yelled at Courfeyrac in their years of friendship. “All of you _believe_ in something, you believe in the cause even still, after everything we’ve just been through, are going through. I believe in…”

“You believe in the friendship between all of us,” Courfeyrac says, cutting him off. “You always have. And most of all you _believe_ in Enjolras. Of those two things I’m absolutely certain.”

“He’s going to die,” Grantaire continues, feeling Courfeyrac’s fingers grasping the bottle and trying to tug it away from him. “He’s going to die and then what’s left to believe in? I might as well stop right now.”

“So this is what you choose, then?” Courfeyrac answers, harsher than Grantaire’s ever heard him. “You choose the bottle as a companion over your friends who love you? Over Enjolras, who is fighting for his life in the room above you? You would let him die without being by his side? I know that’s not what you want.”

“Let _go_ , Courfeyrac,” Grantaire insists. “I don’t need to poison Enjolras’ last moments with my drunkenness and my cynicism and my failure to complete the simplest task,” he says, thinking of the Barriere du Maine. “He doesn’t…”

“If he does die, he would want you there,” Courfeyrac interrupts. “I know that’s true. No matter the arguments you’ve ever had, you’re his friend, R. And friendship means so much to Enjolras. You were willing to die with him right there at the barricade in front of the army general’s gun. That kind of loyalty and love can’t be bought.”

_At the shrine friendship never say die/Let the wine of friendship never run dry…_

Emotion rises in Grantaire’s throat, emotion he absolutely cannot control, cannot stifle. Courfeyrac pulls harder on the bottle and Grantaire tightens his grip, but after a few moments the bottle goes flying, sailing through the air and smashing on the ground, droplets of the remaining red wine dripping from the broken green glass and onto the floor.

To Grantaire, it almost looks like blood, and for a moment he shuts his eyes against the images of the bloody barricade, of his bullet riddled friends.

Courfeyrac stares at him, eyes widening in shock.

And then Grantaire feels the emotion rip out of him, and before he knows it, he’s crying.

He hasn’t truly cried in years, not since he was a child, not like this. Suddenly Courfeyrac’s arms are tight around him, and Grantaire doesn’t fight, sobbing into his friend’s shoulder. He’s never been sure as to just why or how he loves Enjolras so fiercely; he only knows that he does.

_We are drawn to what we lack…_

“I should die instead,” Grantaire says, his voice almost incoherent. “Not him, not Enjolras, not when he’s got so much more to do. He could help so many people Courfeyrac, so many. And who can I help? I would trade places with him if I could.”

“Shhh,” Courfeyrac says, his own voice shaky. “Don’t talk like that. And don’t give up on Enjolras just yet; you know he’s as stubborn and determined as they come.”

Grantaire almost laughs because it’s so true, but he’s distracted by the sound of the door opening again, his sister’s voice floating down the stairs.

“Lucien?” she asks, timid. “Are you down there?”

“We’re down here Madame,” Courfeyrac replies because Grantaire can’t.

Delicate footsteps rush down the stairs, and Adrienne walks over to the pair of them, eyes resting on the broken bottle for a moment.

“Oh Lucien,” she says as Courfeyrac lets go of Grantaire. “I’m so sorry about Enjolras, but he may yet be alright.”

“Maybe,” Grantaire says, his heart still feeling very much like it’s breaking. “I can’t imagine…I can’t…” He stops, losing control of his voice altogether as Adrienne embraces him, Courfeyrac’s hand resting on his shoulder.

A few moments pass and he finds his voice again, speaking about something he hasn’t in years, something he’s never told his friends.

“I had a brother,” he says, directing his words at Courfeyrac, feeling Adrienne’s hold on him tighten. “Alain. He was ten years my senior.”

“You’ve never mentioned him,” Courfeyrac says, looking first at Grantaire and then at Adrienne. “What…had?”

“He was killed,” Adrienne says, taking her brother’s hand. “He was set to go off to seminary, to study for the clergy just a few months from that night.”

“He was out giving food to some of the local gamin like he did regularly,” Grantaire said. “He was always fighting for the poor, going to town meetings and speaking up. But on his way home he was attacked by a gang, stabbed several times with a knife. I was ten, Adrienne was fifteen. Our parents never…it broke our family irreparably. I don’t…I don’t handle it well when I lose someone I love. His death and the circumstance of it shaped who I was, and not for the better.”

Courfeyrac stares at him for a moment, the reason for the cynicism, for the bottle, coming together behind his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Grantaire,” he says, smiling sadly at Adrienne and placing both hands on Grantaire’s shoulders, facing him. “I’m so very sorry. But I promise you that this family, our family, won’t break. We’re hurt, we’re bleeding, but we will stay together.”

Grantaire nods, surprised at how willing he is to believe him.

“What about Enjolras?” he asks, hands shaking.

“If you consent,” Courfeyrac says. “We will go back upstairs, sit with him, and then will him well by the collective power of our own stubbornness to let him go. And then listen to him lecture us about sleeping chairs again.”

Grantaire laughs despite himself. “He is rather resilient, isn’t he?”

“Without a doubt,” Courfeyrac answers, helping Grantaire up off the floor. “Without a doubt.”

“Boys?” Monsieur Fauchelevent’s voice asks, carrying down the stairs as they walk up. “I heard a crash, are you alright?”

“I’m sorry monsieur,” Grantaire says sheepishly when they reach him. “I…broke into one of your bottles of wine and…dropped it.”

He expects Fauchelevent to scold him, but the older man smiles almost indulgently instead, and Grantaire doesn’t miss the very obvious melancholy.

“It’s alright lad,” he says. “You’ve been and are going through something terrible, and I won’t miss a bottle of wine. But your friends and Enjolras’ mother are looking for you, they’re gathering in Enjolras’ room. Cosette as well; she’s far too concerned about Marius’ condition to let him out of her sight. I think she’s becoming rather attached to all of you.”

“And we to her monsieur,” Courfeyrac adds. “Thank you.”

And so they go to Enjolras, Adrienne following close behind. They reach the room, finding it already full of their friends, and Grantaire returns to his chair beside Combeferre, who grasps his hand in solidarity.

 _Live, Enjolras,_ Grantaire silently wills him. _For my sake. For all our sakes_.

He smiles slightly.

 _For France’s sake_.

* * *

 

While everyone is upstairs, Valjean sits down with Monsieur Gillenormand in the parlor, a question in his mind.

“Thank you for allowing Marius to stay,” Gillenormand says. “I know you’ve got your hands full as it is, but he wanted so to be with his friends that I couldn’t refuse him.”

“Of course,” Valjean replies, taking a sip of his coffee to give his hands something to do. “Your Marius loves my Cosette, so it’s the least I could do. And these boys, they’re suffering enough as it is.”

Gillenormand nods. “How is Marius’ friend, the other injured boy? Cosette told us he had an infection.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” Valjean answers, grave. “He’s very ill, but we’re going to continue hoping for the best.”

“I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough,” Gillenormand continues. “For saving my Marius’ life. We’ve disagreed most furiously over his father, over his political actions, were estranged, but…” he swallows back a tide of emotion. “I’m old and I don’t know that I fully understand his views, but I’ve also learned that I cannot let that get in the way of our relationship. Nearly losing him…if there’s anything I can do to assist you, please tell me.”

“Actually,” Valjean responds, pleased the elderly man appears to be reading his mind. “I’m concerned at present, about the authorities. I saw a poster for Enjolras’ arrest while I was out today, and though I don’t know if they know the names of the other boys, I fear for all of their safety while in Paris. I know we cannot leave now; Enjolras and Marius are not in any condition for it, but I worry about staying here for too long.”

“They may not be in danger forever,” Gillenormand answers. “But I agree, they certainly will be for a time. I have a house in the countryside just outside Avignon. It’s more than a sufficient size to house all of you and far enough away from Paris to be safe. It’s the least I can do.”

“I will pay you rent to cover expenses,” Valjean says.

“No,” Gillenormand says. “You saved Marius’ life, that is enough. It is more than enough.”

“I insist,” Valjean says. “And thank you.”

“We may yet be family should your Cosette and my Marius marry,” Gillenormand replies. “But if you insist, they shall be minimal, these payments.” He grumbles slightly as he says is, but it’s all good-natured, Valjean knows.

They continue talking over the details, and Gillenormand promises to prepare the house and have it ready as soon as possible. After an hour or so Valjean sees him out, inviting him over the next day to come and see Marius at his leisure. He checks in on the boys, who have all fallen asleep surrounding Enjolras, Adrienne and Cosette included. Enjolras’ mother is the only one awake, and she moves to speak to him, closing the door behind her.

“I haven’t had the proper chance to thank you monsieur,” she tells him, eyes red from shedding tears. “You have gone beyond the call of duty to help my son, to help all these boys. If it weren’t for you, they would all have been lost.”

“How is he?” Valjean asks. “I saw Doctor Figeuron out just after Marius’ grandfather, and he said he’d return in the morning.”

“He’s much the same,” she answers, voice fragile with anxiety. “He’s…”

She can’t finish her sentence and without quite knowing what he’s doing, Valjean embraces her, full of such empathy he feels he might burst.

“You are welcome here as long as you need,” he tells her. “But right now I recommend you get some rest, even if it’s just sleeping in that chair.”

“You come from God above monsieur,” she says, and Valjean is physically struck by the similarity to Fantine’s words of so long ago. “You should rest also; you look about to fall from exhaustion.”

Valjean agrees, bidding her goodnight, eyes landing on each of the boys before focusing momentarily on his daughter, swearing that as soon as the right moment approach amongst these life-changing events, he will tell her the truth about her mother, about his past.

He goes to his room and sleeps, though not well, awoken just as the sun starts peeking through the windows to the sound of Cosette’s voice.

“Papa!” she exclaims, coming over and shaking him lightly. “Papa, Enjolras’ fever, it’s breaking!”

A/N: I know, I know, I’m leaving you with a cliffhanger, but it’s a good one, right?


	10. Of Broken Fevers and Broken Codes

                                        

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde                                    

(Men of Mercy)

A/N:  Just a note here on Marius: while this fic is a mixture of the original novel, musical, and movie, Marius is largely based on his musical counterpart in how he reacts to learning about Valjean. Just wanted to make that clear before you actually started reading in case there was confusion. I do hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

 Chapter 10: Of Broken Fevers and Broken Codes

The first thing Enjolras feels is damp, damp like someone threw droplets of warm water all over him, his sheets, and his clothing.

He opens his eyes slowly, wondering for a moment, if he’s dead.

The multiple pairs of eyes staring down at him and the footsteps rushing down the hall tell him he’s not. One face in particular is very close to his own, blue eyes bright with nervous energy.

“You’re alive!” Gavroche exclaims, sounding nearer to his normal self than Enjolras has heard in days.

“Should I…not be?” Enjolras questions, eyes flickering briefly to Combeferre, remembering brief flashes of a conversation, of the trembling voice of his usually undeniably steady best friend.

_“Am I dying?”_

_“You’re not well. But we’re doing everything we can Enjolras, I swear to you.”_

“Well, things were touch and go there for a bit, my friend,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras turns his head, warming a bit at seeing the familiar grin. “We really thought you were almost in the gra…”

“Courf!” Feuilly exclaims with an anxious yet amused shake of his head. “Tact, please.”

“You’re worse than me,” Grantaire mumbles, and Enjolras looks up, noting that he smells slightly of wine-which is nothing new-but his eyes are also reddened from what looks like tears.

Just how bad off had he been? He remembers hallucinating, although vaguely, remember snatches of moments.

“I don’t know, R,” someone’s voice says, teasing, but still fond. “I’d sooner take a class in tact from you than Courfeyrac.”

“The beautiful women of France don’t seem to have any problem with this ‘lack of tact’ you mention, Marius,” Courfeyrac adds, but he’s still smiling.

When on _earth_ did Marius get here?

Enjolras turns so fast it makes his head spin.

Literally. Or at least if feels like it.

 “Easy Enjolras, easy,” Combeferre says, easing him back down and arranging the pillows so he can sit up a bit more.

“When…Marius, when did you get here?” Enjolras asks, baffled, eyes running over his injured friend. “How?”

“Cosette came and told me you were ill,” Marius answers. “And I simply had to come. We were just very careful about transporting me. Besides, I look a sight better than you do. Going to tell me I’m impulsive?”

“Not this time,” Enjolras replies lightly. “Because I know I would have done the same in that circumstance. I would chide you for mocking the sick, but…”

“You’re too sick?” Marius finishes, smirking.

Enjolras smiles slightly, eyes flickering over Monsieur Fauchelevent, Cosette, and Grantaire’s sister Adrienne who is also somehow miraculously here, before falling on his mother, who sits so close to his bedside that the arm of her chair touches the edge.

“How ever did you get here?” he asks, reaching over for her hand when he sees it shaking violently. He can only imagine her worry over him. He’s been close to her, always, and knows the fighting she puts up with from his father to make trips to Paris so she can see him.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent found Adrienne and I while we were walking the streets looking…” she answers, cutting off in mid-sentence, giving him the very urgent sense that she’s leaving something out, but he doesn’t yet have the energy to press the matter. “And brought us here to all of you.”

“You continue to be our savior monsieur,” Enjolras says, turning his attention to Fauchelevent. “You and Cosette both.”

“It is nothing,” Fauchelevent says humbly, a small smile curving at his lips.

“It is everything,” Enjolras protests. “You saved all our lives, brought my mother here, brought Adrienne here, opened your home to us.”

“I’m pleased to help you,” Fauchelevent answers, fully smiling now, and an inherent feeling of safety overcomes Enjolras, a feeling that surprises him and yet does not all at once. And yet there’s anxiety in Fauchelvent’s eyes…

“I sense there’s something you’re not telling me,” Enjolras says bluntly, already feeling weary.

The room falls silent, the relieved grins fading from faces as quickly as they’d come upon Enjolras’ awakening.

“What?” he asks, throat tightening.

It’s his mother who answers.

“The police,” she says, squeezing the hand that grasps hers. “They’ve already posted fliers of your face around Paris. They’ve started looking for you. For anyone who might be with you.”

He knew this was coming.

He knew it was coming and yet the knot that has taken residence in his stomach twists violently for the sake of these surviving friends, these friends who have come so far that he cannot allow anything to happen to them now.

They’d hadn’t sought death, but they’d been willing to accept it if necessary, if inevitable, for this cause that meant so much to all of them.

But now that they’ve survived…

“If it is necessary for me to turn…”

“Rene,” his mother says, touching his face and forcing him to look at her. “Do not even think of finishing that statement.”

“I second that,” Combeferre adds, stern.

“As if you think we’d let you out,” Grantaire says, almost laughing. “I haven’t had nearly as much wine as usual, and I can block that door all day long. Bahorel taught me a few tricks.”

Grantaire stops abruptly, a moment of silence reigning in memory of their so recently departed friend, the mere mention of his name sending a slice of pain through Enjolras’ chest, still so fresh, so new, the idea that their friends won’t simply burst into the room. Eventually the sharpness will reduce to an ache, but Enjolras knows it will never completely cease hurting them all, these losses.

“You are all stubborn,” he mumbles.

“We could say the same about you,” Feuilly says with a good-natured smile. “Perhaps that’s where we learned.”

Enjolras can’t help but smile in return.

“Marius’ grandfather has graciously offered us use of his home outside Avignon,” Fauchelevent says, looking around at all of them. “But until that home is prepared, I am considering, if necessary and when possible, a move to my second home in the Rue Plumet, as it is larger. For now however, Cosette and I are going to talk to Toussaint about preparing breakfast.”

Then without giving any of them a chance to argue or to lament that his kindness was too much, he sweeps from the room, Cosette giving Marius a soft kiss on the forehead before following him. Adrienne exits in much the same manner, kissing Grantaire’s cheek and following Cosette.

Enjolras watches the two women go, thinking that they are just as brave as any men he’s known. He feels his mother’s warm hand on his cheek, his attention coming back to her.

“The doctor is coming back later to check on you,” she says, using nearly the same tone she had when he’d acquired influenza as a child and didn’t want to stay in bed. “But in the meantime you listen to Combeferre, alright? I can’t lose you now, not after you’ve already been saved.”

He nods, and she presses a kiss to the top of his head, a rush of deep, unadulterated affection rushing through him, so he pulls her in as best he can with his weak body and injured arm, embracing her.

“I love you,” he whispers into her hair. “And I’m sorry.”

It’s not an apology for who he is or what he’s done, it’s an apology for the hurts he knows it’s caused her, because he knows it isn’t easy for a mother to watch her child dive headfirst into a cause that might very well kill him, but his mother is unceasingly courageous.

“I love you too,” she answers, returning the embrace. “And don’t be sorry, don’t ever be sorry, just…listen to your friends. And follow all directions given to you about getting well.” She pulls back, running a hand down his cheek. “I’ll leave you boys alone for a bit, shall I? Give you some time to talk.”

And with that she exits with all the grace they boys have always seen in Enjolras, leaving the seven revolutionaries and Gavroche alone.

There is a moment of quiet, and Enjolras looks over at Combeferre, noting that he looks ready to burst with something.

“Go ahead Combeferre,” he says. “I know you’ve had your lecture about my recovery prepared for hours.”

Everyone laughs at that, and just for a moment, Enjolras feels some of the tension leave him.

“You are on complete bed-rest for two weeks, the only exception being this possible move to the Rue Plumet,” Combeferre begins. “After that you will still need a great deal of rest, as none of us are willing to risk you coming down with another infection, so we will take it slowly. You will have that sling on your arm for several weeks, and we will need to find a cane for you somewhere, as that leg will make it harder to walk for a while. You will have to take some medications for a period. It will just take time, Enjolras, and I know that isn’t what you want to hear…”

Combeferre stumbles over his words in a way that is most unlike him, and Enjolras has another flash of memory from the previous night, remembers seeing tears leak from Combeferre’s eyes.

“It’s alright Combeferre,” Enjolras says sincerely. “I will do whatever you say, I promise. We’ve all been through something hellish, and my being ill has only made it worse.”

Combeferre looks a smidge stunned, but grasps Enjolras’ arm briefly in response.

“We almost lost you, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, voice still quiet, and Enjolras sees Combeferre meet Courfeyrac’s eye for the briefest moment. It’s clear something happened with Grantaire last night, but he suspects they’ll tell him in time. “We’ve lost so much…we can’t lose you, too.”

It’s one of Grantaire’s rare and unmasked moments of pure emotion, and on impulse Enjolras reaches out and presses his hand, offering him a smile. Grantaire stares for a moment before returning the gesture.

“And if you even think of trying to turn yourself in,” he continues, recovering his normal expression. “Don’t.” From his place beside Grantaire, Gavroche nods seriously.

Courfeyrac seems to sense Enjolras’ argument coming before it does.

“I see that look,” Courfeyrac says, a glint of concern in his green eyes. “We are in this together. Always together. They take one of us, they take all of us. Now, didn’t we have something to tell Marius?”

Marius sits up a bit straighter, looking nervous.

“Something to tell me?” he asks, glancing at Courfeyrac.

“Something Grantaire overheard while Monsieur Fauchelevent helped us escape,” Courfeyrac says. “I don’t know that you remember, but he took us through the sewers.”

“I have one very vague memory,” Marius says. “But the only reason I gathered we’d been in the sewers was from the amount of filth on my person when we arrived at my grandfather’s home. What happened?”

“We all waited while Monsieur Fauchelevent went outside to look, still carrying you,” Grantaire says. “And the inspector who infiltrated the barricade…”

“Javert,” Gavroche adds, cutting in.

“Javert, yes,” Grantaire says. “He confronted Fauchelevent, called him Valjean, 24601…”

“A…prisoner number?” Marius asks, bewildered.

“That’s what we gathered,” Feuilly says. “But from what Grantaire could pick up, there’s some kind of history between Monsieur Fauchelevent and Inspector Javert, as if Fauchelevent escaped under Javert’s watch.”

“It didn’t sound like the first time he’d let Fauchelevent escape,” Grantaire replies.

“But he let him go with me?” Marius asks. “That…”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Combeferre interjects. “But we’re not going to understand unless we speak with him.”

Enjolras keeps his eyes trained on Marius, who looks more than a little shocked, but there’s a sort of resolve building in his expression.

“Marius?” he asks. “What are you thinking?”

“I’d like to know the truth,” Marius says honestly. “But truthfully? I don’t care what he was in the past, because first of all, he’s clearly been wonderful father to Cosette, and second of all, he’s risked life and limb to save me, to save all of us. Whatever he might have done in the past, it just doesn’t matter.”

“That was our line of thinking,” Enjolras answers. “But we’d like him to know that he doesn’t have to hide who he is from us.”

“But we’re also not sure he wants to talk about it,” Grantaire says. “Do you think Cosette knows the truth?”

“I’m not sure,” Marius says. “I do know she adores her father. But I’d rather not put her in the middle of it; speaking with him directly seems best.”

“I agree,” Courfeyrac says. “I suppose it’s only a matter of timing. Right this moment doesn’t seem…right.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Enjolras agrees.

“I think we’ve rather been through enough in the past few days,” Combeferre says. “Let us collect our thoughts and ourselves and then wait for the right moment. It’s not about accosting him; it’s about letting him know that we don’t care who he’s been, and showing him how grateful we are for everything’s he’s done.”

“Well said,” Enjolras says, nodding.

Silence falls again, and Enjolras feels Combeferre’s eyes on him.

“Speaking of Monsieur Fauchelevent,” he says. “He acquired some clothing for us, and I think it best to get you out of those sweat-soaked things before Doctor Figeuron arrives.”

Enjolras consents, and allows Grantaire and Feuilly to help him to a chair while the damp sheets are changed, grateful to feel the warmth of their skin, the beating of their pulses when they touch him.

They’re alive, and that is Enjolras’ light in what feels like an overwhelming dark.

* * *

 

Javert’s shift is nearly over when he’s called into Prefect Gerard’s office.

He knows what this is about.

He knew this would happen, even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself.

So despite the fact that he rather feels as if he might be ill, he rises from his immaculate desk, straightens his coat, and walks to the Prefect’s office, his expression a mask of professionalism.

“Javert,” Gerard says, gesturing to the seat in front of him. “Do have a seat. And close the door, if you would.”

Javert does as asked and then sits down, folding his hands neatly on his lap and looking to his superior.

“You wished to speak with me, monsieur?”

“Yes, and most urgently,” he replies, leaning back in his chair. “As you know, nearly all of the insurgents at the various barricades around the city were killed; I’m sure some managed to escape, but that is the nature of these things. However, we are still searching for the known leaders that are missing and therefore possibly survived. Charles Jeanne from the Saint Merry barricade, and Rene Enjolras, the leader of the last barricade to fall in the Rue de Chanverie. You infiltrated that barricade, did you not?”

“I did monsieur.” Gerard doesn’t ask him how he escaped, and Javert is glad of it, because it would only mean being forced to lie, would only mean directly keeping the information from his superior that he had allowed a convict to go free WITH an insurgent.

“And you were there for the aftermath and discovered that the leader of that particular barricade was missing?”

“Yes monsieur. Enjolras. We thought some others might be missing but…”

“Some of his lieutenants, I’m certain,” Gerard interrupts. “But it is Enjolras himself the king and those closest to him are interested in; if we crush the leaders, those who follow them will be far too frightened to continue. He is to be made a public example of, when he’s found, and I’d like you to lead the investigation into his whereabouts.”

Someone punched him the stomach without him noticing, Javert thinks. Surely, surely that happened, otherwise why does it feel rather difficult to breathe?

_Just because Valjean escaped with the Pontmercy boy it does NOT mean that he escaped with Enjolras and his remaining lieutenants._

_It might._

_It’s something Valjean would do, saving those schoolboys._

_You know where he lives,_ he tells himself. _You could easily go there._

Except that would mean seeing Valjean, the convict who gave him back his life, would mean seeing his daughter, who subsequently saved him from throwing himself into the river.

_You could lead the investigation astray, lead them elsewhere._

Except that would be, once again, going against his code.

And now going against his job, against his orders.

“Javert?” Gerard asks, one eyebrow raised. “Do you consent?”

“If you think I’m the best man for the job, monsieur,” Javert answers.

“I do,” Gerard says. “I do.” He softens ever so slightly. “It’s unfortunate, the deaths of all those young men, and although it seems a shame to shed more, high treason is not something we let go, and Enjolras was already a problem as far as riling up the citizens of Paris; he will play for his crimes against the state, will pay for all their crimes, and he will stand before the public firing squad as an example to other potential revolutionaries. It is the only way for Louis-Phillipe to establish that he is a strong monarch and will not stand for further insurrection.”

“Enjolras is well known and liked around the city for his speeches,” Javert says, and he hardly sounds like himself. “And the people are already rioting in the streets over the bloodshed of the young students, of the workers who were also involved, in such difficult economic times.”

Gerard states at him, utterly perplexed.

“I never thought you might be sympathetic to their cause, Javert,” he says. “And of course now the people are angry, but the people are easily swayed; they did not rise to the cause as the students expected them to. Their rising now is of little consequence.”

Javert wants to tell him that he wasn’t there, that he didn’t hear the screams of sobbing mothers and sisters, didn’t see the glassy-eyed faces of boys who had been alive with idealism mere hours ago. He’s handed out justice without question since his first day on the force, but something about those damned young men, their bodies lined up in rows, blood running between the stones...

But they broke the _law_ , and for that there is no clemency.

_But then if that’s true, why is Valjean still free?_

_I am the law and law is not mocked…_

“I’m not sympathetic to the cause,” Javert replies, voice crisp and clear again. “I shall start my preliminary investigation and then report to you.”

“Good man,” Gerard says, shaking his hand.

With that, Javert exits the office, sticking his hands in his pockets because he’s certain they’re trembling.

Arresting this insurgent could be his chance at redemption for his failure to arrest Valjean.

But then, if Enjolras is with Valjean, then arresting him means seeing Valjean, means the temptation to arrest him too, after so long.

But he knows he can’t arrest Valjean, knows in the deepest recesses of his mind that it would be _wrong_.

Here he is again, at the precipice. His conscience or his duty?

 _I will cover all other possibilities first, he tells himself. And then and only then will I go looking for Enjolras at Valjean’s home_.

For the time being, he contents himself with that thought.

 

 

 


	11. Truths and Conversations

 Les Hommes de la Miséricorde    

 (Men of Mercy)

 

Chapter 11: Truths and Conversations

Valjean folds his hands.

Then unfolds them.

Then folds them again.

He sits with Cosette on their favorite bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, a bag of petits fours from her favorite bakery open between them; they’ve been her favorite since childhood, and he thought having something to hold, something to chew, might make this easier.

He has no idea if he’s doing the right thing, but knows now that he cannot keep his secrets from her, can no longer hide, not with the threat of the law on his back and chasing after Enjolras, not after Cosette accidentally saved Javert from throwing himself into the Seine, not with the potential that the boys suspect something…and certainly not with a possible proposal from Marius on the horizon.

It’s been two days since Enjolras’ fever broke, and the infection continues healing, though he’s still very, very weak and the other boys have hardly left his bedside, including Marius, who’s still very much on the mend himself. His usually near-empty house is full to bursting and despite the tension, despite the grief, it fills him with a sense of purpose; Cosette graciously offered to share her room with Madame Enjolras and Adrienne, Combeferre shares with Feuilly, Grantaire with Courfeyrac and Gavroche, and then Marius and Enjolras are in their own rooms. His house at Rue Plumet at least, has one more bedroom and a larger parlor, and if possible he’s thinking of moving their location.

For the first time in memory, he jumps at the feeling of Cosette’s hand on his shoulder.

“Papa?” she questions, her voice warm with concern, concern he fears she won’t feel in just a few moments. “Are you alright? You don’t seem yourself.”

He hesitates.

“I’m alright,” he replies, turning and taking both of her small hands in his, blood pulsing in his ears. “But I…I did bring you here to speak about something in particular.”

“I thought as much,” she answers, a smile tweaking her lips. “What with everything we have going on, I didn’t think you simply fancied a walk. Though you’ve done stranger things.” Her tone is teasing, but fond.

Memories of her falling asleep with her head in his lap on the carriage ride to Paris from Montfermeil wash over him, and he remembers.

_“Will you be like a papa to me?”_

_“Yes Cosette, this is true. I’ll be father and mother to you.”_

_How was I to know at last, that happiness can come so fast. Something, suddenly, has begun…_

“Papa?” she asks again, grasping his hands tighter.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, feeling tears gathering at the edges of his eyes and holding them back. “I…I came here to tell you the truth about me. About your mother. About you.”

Cosette’s eyes widen, a tentative eagerness filling her eyes, but she doesn’t let go of his hands.

“You may not think of me in the same fashion,” he tells her. “And for that, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“How on earth can you know that?” she asks gently, but firmly. “You have been my father and my family, and that won’t change. I love you.”

“I…” Valjean feels emotions swelling and expanding in his throat. He’d told himself he wouldn’t do this, told himself he would remain strong for Cosette.

“It’s okay Papa,” Cosette says, warmth spreading through him as she speaks.

She knows how much he loves her.

“I came from a poor family,” he begins, finally looking up to meet her eyes. “And my sister and I were left as orphans. Eventually my sister married and had seven children but was soon left a widow; I did my best to provide for her, did my best to put food in the mouths of my nieces and nephews, but much like now, life wasn’t kind to people of our station. I was desperate, and I stole bread from the local baker. But someone heard the shattering of the glass, and I was arrested, given five years for my crime…”

“Five years!” she exclaims, indignant at the injustice. “That’s…”

He raises a hand, a silent gesture to allow him to continue or he simply won’t have the power. It’s not the crime of stealing bread to feed his family that he’s ashamed of, it’s of who he became while he was in Toulon, of the hate he allowed to spread through his soul and take him over.

“I was angry,” he continues. “And so I tried to escape multiple times and was given fourteen years more in the galleys for a total of nineteen until I was released on parole.”

He looks up again and sees the tears forming in her eyes; there’s no hate there yet, no disgust, but then, she doesn’t know the worst of his crimes.

“When I was released I felt as if the world owed me something. I was hateful, Cosette, I was furious, and after many weeks of searching for work and being refused, a kindly bishop offered me his guest room for the night, gave me food, warmth, the first real bed I’d slept in for nineteen years.” He stops, averting his eyes from her again. “In the middle of the night I awoke, and I…I stole the bishop’s best silver.”

There’s a small, surprised intake of breath from Cosette, but she still doesn’t let go of his hands. In fact, she only holds them tighter. She stays silent, knowing he needs to continue.

“The town police caught me and returned me to Bishop Myriel’s home,” he says, the memory fresh as ever in his mind’s eye. “But instead of taking back his silver and sending me back to the galleys, the bishop…” he stops for moment, the man’s face, the face that radiated kindness, all he can think of. “He told them he’d given the silver to me, reprimanded me for leaving the best behind, and they released me. He bid me to become an honest man.”

_But remember this, my brother. See in this some higher plan. You must use this precious silver to become an honest man. By the witness of the martyrs, by the passion and the blood, God has raised you out of darkness, I have bought your soul, for God…_

“The candlesticks,” Cosette whispers. “Those are from the bishop.”

“Yes, Valjean says, squeezing her hands. “Yes. I knew I couldn’t change my life while still on parole, there wasn’t a chance the world would allow that. So I broke it, broke it and changed my name. And that’s how I found myself in Montreuil sur Mer. It’s how I met your mother. And how Inspector Javert found me again; he’d been one of the guards at Toulon.”

Before Valjean even knows what’s happening Cosette lets go of his hand and throws her arms around him, embracing him with all her might. He feels her tears dripping on his shirt, his heart contracting with shame.

“I’m so sorry to disappoint you,” he says quietly, returning her embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

“Disappoint me?” she asks, pulling back and looking directly in his eyes. “Papa, no. You are the most generous, thoughtful, selfless person I could have ever known. And this…you took injustices that were done to you, took your horrible plot in life and turned it into something good. How could I ever _hate_ you for that?”

“You…you aren’t angry with me?” he asks, unable to hide his shock.

“Only that you didn’t tell me before, that you didn’t trust me with this,” she answers honestly. “Only that you thought I _would_ hate you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, relief flooding through him so forcefully it’s painful. Cosette doesn’t despise him, doesn’t want him instantly out of her life, he hasn’t broken her heart…

“I only feared I would break your heart,” he tells her.

“I know,” she says, touching his cheek. “Inspector Javert, is he…is he the police officer I found by the bridge?”

“Yes,” Valjean answers. “He’s been on my trail since the day I broke parole, and when I was at the barricade he was there, and I freed him. I suspect that’s what led him to the bridge. But I don’t know what he’ll do, now.”

Cosette nods, apprehension in her eyes.

“You said…you said you would tell me about my mother?”

Valjean nods, sharp melancholy striking his heart when he thinks of Fantine, mixing with joy when he looks at Cosette and knowing how proud Fantine would be if she could see her daughter now.

Cosette is the best of his life.

“Fantine was one of the most selfless souls I’ve ever come across,” he says, and now he knows he will be the strong one for Cosette, because it won’t be an easy story for her to hear. “But the world…it was cruel to her.”

“She left me,” Cosette blurts out suddenly, a marked hurt in her voice. “She…why would she leave me with those people, with the Thenardiers?”

“She didn’t know the sort of people they were,” Valjean answers carefully. “If she had, she never would have left you there. And it was only meant to be temporary. I don’t know the circumstance of why your father wasn’t present, but he wasn’t, and that left your mother completely alone. She hoped, I believe, to make enough money so she could bring you to live with her in better conditions than she herself lived in. She loved you, Cosette, more than I coherently express here in mere words.”

Cosette nods again. “What…what happened to her?” She sounds once more like the timid child he’d first met, rather than the hopeful, confident young woman he now knows so well.

Valjean closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply and steeling himself.

“I was mayor of and owner of the women’s factory she worked in,” he begins. “I tried my best to provide living wages for my workers, but there was an incident one day, a disagreement between some of the women and your mother, and I asked my foreman to handle it. I left, and he fired her without my knowledge, without my knowing her circumstance, and I suspect now, that he was punishing her for some imagined slight. I found her again one night, amongst…”

He pauses, forcing the words forth. “Amongst the prostitutes, because she had no other choice. A man had attacked her, and Javert got involved in the situation. But I refused to let them take her to prison once she told me the story about what happened, about the factory, about you. She tried everything to send money to the Thenardiers to keep you, tried to earn money so she could have you with her, and she was willingly to do _anything_. She sold her hair, her teeth… She loved you Cosette, more than her own life. And I promised her I would take care of you, would make you happy. It’s all she ever wanted.”

Cosette starts crying again, harder this time, and Valjean pulls her to him, rubbing a comforting hand up and down her back; her tears, he suspects, are not out of anger at her mother, but out of empathy, out of the immense loss she feels at never having really known her, at hearing about the sacrifices she made.

“I love her,” Cosette says quietly. “I’ve always loved her. I just didn’t understand.”

“I know,” Valjean says. “I know.”

They remain like that for several minutes, but there’s so much left to say and they’re so spent that they cannot articulate it just yet.

“Are we going to tell Marius these things?” she asks, pulling back. “Or the other boys?”

“Marius will need to know, in time, the truth about me,” he replies. “And something tells me that the other boys already know something isn’t quite right; when I rescued them from the barricade I ran into Javert and he let me go with your Marius. I don’t know for certain, but I think Grantaire might have overheard our conversation, for lack of a better term. But if you agree, I shall need time to figure out how to approach that. And it is up to you if you wish to share the story of your mother. That I think, will take some time for you to process.”

She hugs him again in silent agreement, and after a few moments they rise to leave. She links her arm through his and stays close on the walk home, caught up in her thoughts and he in his. When they’re nearly there they stop to let a carriage pass, and Valjean notices yet another poster of Enjolras’ face hanging nearby, two police officers standing in front. He can just makes out their voices, and he presses Cosette’s arm, a silent request to stop walking.

“No sign of him yet, then?” the first officer asks.

“No,” the second replies. “And we’re still cleaning up the mess from all the barricades and people are furious at the bloodshed. Almost all the higher ups are out looking for any surviving leaders, but they think they’re all dead, except for Enjolras and Charles Jeanne. He escaped, apparently, along with some others,” he says, jabbing his thumb at the poster. “There were too many rebels to have proof to charge most of the remaining survivors, so they’re focusing on finding the leaders, the ones who were already visibly vocal and causing trouble, whose names they know.”

“I heard Inspector Javert’s been put in charge of finding Enjolras,” the other answers. “And with his perseverance…”

“That boy will almost certainly get caught,” the second finishes. “I almost pity him.”

Their voices fade and instead Valjean only hears the pounding of his own heart. Cosette looks at him, eyes widening.

“We have to move to the house in Rue Plumet,” he says. “We have to move tonight. “

* * *

 

For once, it’s quiet when Enjolras wakes. There’s no murmur of conversation like there usually is, when every last one of his friends sits by his bedside.

“Well hello there O Sleeping One,” Courfeyrac says, hand going almost unconsciously to Enjolras’ arm as he helps him sit up.

“It’s disturbingly quiet in here,” Enjolras remarks. “I thought you were sitting with Marius?”

“I was,” Courfeyrac says. “But you’ve been asleep for about three hours, and I wanted to come sit with you for a bit. Besides, I made Marius go to sleep, because from what his grandfather told me, he hardly slept while he was at home because he was too concerned about us, and really, we don’t need another scare around here, you frightened us enough. And, besides it prevents him from fretting over where M. Fauchelevent and Cosette have gotten to.”

“They’re not here?” Enjolras asks, curious.

“Went out for a bit,” Courfeyrac answers. “I think Marius is just interested to know the truth about M. Fauchelevent. We’re all grateful to him of course, and whatever he’s done he’s redeemed himself, but knowing the truth will make it easier on everyone, I should think.”

Enjolras nods. “I feel an inherent sense of trust toward him, but I’m still interested in knowing his motivations, myself. I feel we cannot be too careful in our circumstances,” he answers, feeling an odd sort of kinship with the older man, mixed with the tiniest bit of trepidation. Enjolras doesn’t know what sort of crime Fauchelevent committed, but the man does know what it’s like to be a fugitive, and that’s something to which Enjolras will have to adjust. “Where is everyone else?”

“Feuilly is keeping Gavroche occupied for a bit,” Courfeyrac answers. “Grantaire is downstairs talking with Adrienne, your mother is down in the kitchen with Toussaint, who asked if there’s a meal you might actually eat the entirety of…”

“I’m ill!” Enjolras exclaims in response to his friend’s teasing. “Of course I’m not going to eat well.”

“You hardly make time to eat in general,” Courfeyrac argues good-naturedly. “But I suspect your mother will find a way to make you, she’s as stubborn as you are.”

“Where’s Combeferre?” Enjolras asks.

“Ah, I sent him to bed,” Courfeyrac says, rolling his eyes.

“You did?”

“Dragged him after forcing a glass of wine does his throat is more what I did,” Courfeyrac replies. “Every other time I’ve tried he’s snuck back in here to sit with you and obsessively check your fever, which has totaled about eight hours of sleep in an actual bed for the past two or three days. I told him not come back in here until he’s slept for a solid three hours unless there’s an emergency.”

Enjolras shakes his head, smiling slightly. That’s just like Combeferre, running himself ragged out of concern for someone else, out of concern for him. There are many instances in his memory of Combeferre putting food under his nose while he worked furiously on a pamphlet in the Musain and forgot to eat, and in turn he’s forced Combeferre to put down his reading and go home to sleep.

“He probably won’t sleep the full three hours,” Enjolras says, knowing his friend.

“No,” Courfeyrac admits. “But if he knows what’s good for him he’ll sleep at least two.” He’s quiet for a moment before speaking up again, looking serious, his familiar grin missing. “I need to speak to you about something.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says. “Is something wrong?”

He regrets his words almost instantly because what _isn’t_ wrong at the moment, but Courfeyrac knows what he means. The laughter of all their fellows in the café rings in his head, and he distinctly feels as if four parts of him are missing, parts that are shaped like Prouvaire, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Joly.

_Bahorel’s laughter, Jean Prouvaire’s melancholy, Joly’s science, and Bossuet’s sarcasm…_

“I spent some time with Grantaire when the doctor thought you might be lost,” Courfeyrac says, drawing Enjolras back into the moment. “And he was distraught, Enjolras, I’ve never seen him that way before; just sobbing on my shoulder, all defenses down, all sarcasm gone. And even now that you’ve pulled through, he’s still anxious. I was hoping maybe you could speak with him, reassure him.”

“I’ve hardly seen him with any drink at all over the past few days,” Enjolras says in reply. “Except for when M. Fauchelevent allows all of you to eat your meals up here with me.”

“I found him drinking in the wine cellar the night we thought you might die,” Courfeyrac answers. “But the only alcohol he’s touched since is the wine at meals. I think he wants to make sure he’s sober enough to do anything you should need, in case anything should happen. I know it might not make sense to you, but he worships the ground you walk on Enjolras.”

Enjolras remembers awakening from his fever dream, remembers Grantaire calming him down, remembers Grantaire practically shielding him when the army general’s carbine was pointed directly over his heart, remembers Grantaire’s words when his fever broke two days ago.

_We almost lost you, Enjolras. We’ve lost too much…we can’t lose you too._

“I think I’m beginning to fully realize that,” Enjolras says, looking up at Courfeyrac. “And I did always care about him, did consider him my friend even when he frustrated me. I wouldn’t have allowed him in our most secret meetings, wouldn’t have given him chance after chance if I didn’t. I just…I don’t understand him. I just want him to believe in something Courfeyrac, because I know he’s capable of it, and I’ve seen sparks of that ever since the barricade fell.”

“He believes in our friendship, and most of all he believes in you,” Courfeyrac says, a soft smile returning to his lips. “And that’s something my friend. It’s a start.”

“I suppose it is,” Enjolras agrees. “But yes, I will speak to him. Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” Courfeyrac replies. “Also you should know…”

But whatever Courfeyrac was about to say is cut off by a series of noises; they hear the front door open hastily downstairs, hear footsteps walking swiftly down the hall, hear one of the guest room doors open, hear muffled words they can’t quite make out, and then quite suddenly Combeferre is in the doorway.

“Courfeyrac sent you to sleep,” Enjolras says, a reprimand in his tone. “You need sleep too, Combeferre, not just me…”

But Combeferre uncharacteristically cuts him off, albeit gently, and there’s anxiety in his best friend’s eyes that unnerves Enjolras.

“There’s no time right now,” he tells them. “M. Fauchelevent’s just told me that we have to move to his house in the Rue Plumet tonight, as soon as darkness falls. Inspector Javert’s been put on our case.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen slightly.

_Spy, we are judges, not assassins…_

The man he’d thought killed at the barricade.

_The people will decide your fate Inspector Javert!_

The man who’d accosted M. Fauchelevent outside the sewers after Fauchelevent had obviously given him back his life.

_The law in inside out the world is upside down…_

The man who’d then let Fauchelevent go free with Marius.

And the man who knows what every last one of them looks like.

 

 

 

 


	12. Under Cover of Night

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

  (Men of Mercy)

 Chapter 12: Under Cover of Night

The house is whirlwind of activity, and yet all Enjolras can do is wait.

Wait.

Wait.

 _Wait_.

“Is there anything I can _do_?” Enjolras asks Feuilly, who has clearly been given an order by Combeferre, his mother, and Monsieur Fauchelevent to guard him.

“I’m afraid not my friend,” Feuilly answers with a good-natured smile. “It’s a risk moving you as is, but we don’t have a choice now, not with Inspector Javert on the case.”

“Do you think Javert knows this is where Fauchelevent lives?” Enjolras asks.

“Honestly I’m not sure,” Feuilly replies. “But I do wonder if that’s the case, what with this sudden need to move houses. As much as I like M. Fauchelevent, I’ll feel better when we know the truth about all of this. I’ll rest easier. Or as easy as any of us can rest right now.”

Enjolras nods, thoughts swirling around in his mind. He’s used to leading, to acting, to _doing_ , and being physically incapable frustrates him. He doesn’t want to worry his friends any further, however, and so remains silent. The trouble is, Feuilly is incredibly perceptive.

“I know you dislike being idle while others act,” Feuilly tells him. “But for now you’re going to have to let the rest of us take the lead. That, or Combeferre’s heart is going to stop beating from his worrying.”

“You’re right,” Enjolras agrees. “And I am trying. And it’s not that I don’t trust you, I trust _all_ of you, I just…”

“Enjolras,” Feuilly says, resting a hand on his arm and stopping his most uncharacteristic ramble of words. “We know you trust us. We know you love us and we know you want to protect us. But you’re going to have to let us protect you in this instance, alright?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, offering Feuilly a melancholy smile. “I admit, I rather don’t feel like myself.”

“None of us do,” Feuilly says, shaking his head. “I don’t know how we could. We will find ourselves again, but not just yet.”

 _And we might find ourselves changed,_ are the words he doesn’t speak aloud. _Changed in the wake of these losses._

There are ghosts in Feuilly’s eyes, ghosts of his long-deceased parents, parents who died when he was just a bit younger than Gavroche, leaving him with no family, no money, and no home. The Amis have been his family since he came into their fold, and Enjolras knows how much that means to his friend. Anger burns in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach at the thought of the injustices Feuilly has suffered; Feuilly, who taught himself so much and yet never had the chance to go to university when so many luckier youths wasted their education away without appreciating it, without acknowledging its merit.

“Your wisdom never ceases to astound me,” Enjolras says sincerely. “Truly.”

“The world has taught me a few things,” Feuilly says humbly.

Footsteps sound in the hallway and Combeferre appears, looking slightly frazzled but still in control, Courfeyrac and Grantaire behind him.

“Alright,” Combeferre says. “M. Gillenormand loaned us two of his carriages, so here is the plan M. Fauchelevent set forth. We will stagger the carriages; the first one will contain M. Fauchelevent, Marius, myself, and you, Enjolras…”

“Me!” Enjolras exclaims. “No, I should not go first…”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, and there is no room for argument in his tone. “It is your face on those posters, and so therefore you need to leave first. That, and we need to move you as quickly as possible to avoid aggravating your injuries. I will phrase it like this if it makes you more amenable; if Inspector Javert comes while you are still here, it will likely only mean bad things for all of us.”

Combeferre raises one eyebrow, and after meeting his eye for a moment and sensing the barely visible glint of desperation, Enjolras concedes.

“Alright,” he replies. “Alright.”

“The second carriage will contain Cosette, Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Gavroche, and the fourth Adrienne, Toussaint, and Madame Enjolras. We’ll stagger the arrivals to the Rue Plumet about ten minutes apart.”

“It’s less suspicious that way, I imagine,” Enjolras says.

“Exactly,” Combeferre says. “But now there’s the matter of getting you downstairs with your leg in this state. M. Fauchelevent has Marius settled in the carriage, but he also has use of both legs.”

“I think I can manage with some assistance,” Enjolras says, even if the idea of putting weight on his leg makes him blanch inwardly.

“We’ll try it,” Combeferre says, clearly skeptical. “Courfeyrac, Grantaire, you’re the strongest amongst us, I think. Courfeyrac, you put your arm around Enjolras’ waist on the side with his bad shoulder, and Grantaire, you put his good arm around your shoulder and help him keep the weight off his injured leg.”

They oblige, and although it pains him to even move, this strategy works.

Until they reach the stairs.

There’s no possibility the stairs are wide enough for all three of them to make their way down three astride.

“Well,” Grantaire says matter of factly. “Looks like I’ll have to carry you again.”

“I’m sure I can…”

“Put weight on that leg,” Grantaire says, challenging him.

Enjolras does, and it sends stabbing pains up the entire length of his leg.

“I thought not,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras is once again surprised at his determination, determination that seems to have been brought forth by this tragedy they’ve found themselves in, by the near loss of Enjolras himself.

He lifts Enjolras carefully into his arms, and it’s done with minimal pain.

“Not as heavy as the marble statues you so often compare me to?” Enjolras asks wryly.

“Not quite,” Grantaire quips, chuckling.

Soon they are down the stairs and out the door, M. Fauchelevent coming to greet them at the first carriage.

“Alright,” he says, and there’s an air of forced calm about him. “Combeferre, you climb in first and then you can help us bring Enjolras in.”

Combeferre does as asked, and Enjolras eyes Marius lying across the second seat, anxiety glistening in his eyes. With Courfeyrac’s help, Grantaire and Combeferre soon have Enjolras laid out in a similar fashion, his head resting on Combeferre’s legs for lack of room.

“Please be careful,” Enjolras says to his remaining friends.

“I will take care of them Rene,” Madame Enjolras says from the right. “And you do as Combeferre and M. Fauchelevent ask of you. We will see you soon.”

And with that the carriage door closes and they’re on the way.

“It’s only about a fifteen minute ride from here,” M. Fauchelevent says, eyes gazing with purpose out the window from his place next to Marius. “But there might be a few bumps.”

“Are you alright Marius?” Enjolras asks, noticing how pale Marius appears.

“I’ve been better,” Marius says, wincing and sending Enjolras a tight smile. “But I’ll be alright. You?”

Enjolras reply is cut off by the first of the mentioned bumps, and of reflex he reaches for Combeferre’s hand, which is open and ready.

“Hold tight,” Combeferre says softly. “Just hold tight.”

“I don’t want to squeeze the feeling out of your hand,” Enjolras says. “If there’s more bumps like that, I might.”

“It’ll come back,” Combeferre assures him. “It’ll come back.”

A rush of affection for Combeferre floods his heart, and he bites his lips against another jolt of pain.

“You have gone beyond your duty once again monsieur,” Enjolras says to M. Fauchelevent when the ride smooths out. “Thank you.”

“Helping you boys is my duty now,” Fauchelevent answers. “And my pleasure. Quiet now, you need to conserve your energy.”

Enjolras falls silent, thoughts darting back to his friends, fear shooting through his heart at the thought of something happening to them; he knows every last one of them is exceedingly capable in the face of danger, they’ve shown that, but still he wants to protect them, to shield them, and yet knows he cannot.

But he will do everything in his power.

And if Javert finds them, if handing himself over means protecting his friends so that they may live their lives freely, so that they can continue fighting for the cause that means so much to all of them…

However, he knows doing so will hurt them, knows that they will attempt to share his fate, and he doesn’t want to cause them any further pain…

But if doing so means saving them…

His own words echo back at him, joined with Combeferre’s.

_As for myself, constrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself._

_We will share thy fate!_

He remembers sending people away from the barricade, remembers the surprised faces of all present, their resolve to stay.

_Let us not waste lives. Let all women and fathers of children, go from here…_

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks, as if sensing his inner turmoil.

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras says, evading the question, but squeezes his friend’s hand; it’s a gesture that lets Combeferre know they will speak later.

They arrive in just under fifteen minutes to a quaint but spacious house set back from a small grove of ivy covered trees and flowers. Much to Combeferre and M. Fauchelevent’s chagrin, both Enjolras and Marius insist on staying put in the parlor until the others arrive. Enjolras’ entire body throbs with pain and Marius is nearly asleep from exhaustion, but they sit silently with Combeferre moving back and forth between their couches as M. Fauchelevent readies the house and airs out the rooms.

Almost exactly ten minutes later the second group arrives and nearly the moment they cross the threshold Cosette’s exasperated voice rings through the room.

“I knew I would find the two of you here!” she exclaims.

Marius opens his eyes fully at hearing her voice, looking sheepish, and if it weren’t such a tense situation, Enjolras would’ve been amused at his friend’s expense.

Courfeyrac and Gavroche, on the other hand, can’t help but laugh quietly at Cosette’s following diatribe and the expression on Marius’ face.

“I explicitly told you to head straight upstairs and rest, Marius,” she tells him, brows furrowed. Suddenly, Enjolras finds she’s rounded on him. “And your mother told me you’d be sitting here Enjolras, you’d best let the others help you to bed before she finds you. And Combeferre, I expected you’d have forced them upstairs.”

“I tried mademoiselle,” he tells her, raising his hands in defeat. “Enjolras is stubborn certainly, but when you combine that with Marius’ own brand of persistence I found myself a bit powerless to refuse them. They were worried.”

Monsieur Fauchelevent has prepared the downstairs bedroom so that Enjolras won’t have to brave the stairs again with his leg. Before Enjolras can even open his mouth to protest, Fauchelevent picks him gingerly up and carries him to said bedroom as if the weight his nothing, laying him down gently while Courfeyrac and Feuilly help Marius up the stairs, Cosette’s concerned words and reassurances following them.

“Thank you monsieur,” Enjolras says, settling against the pillows, hearing the wheels of the third carriage crunching on the gravel drive and breathing freely again.

They all made it safely and hopefully without being followed.

“I suspect soon I’ll have forgotten how to walk, with treatment like this,” Enjolras continues dryly, a hint of a joke in his tone.

Fauchelvent smiles.

“Your legs might have to adjust, but I’m sure Combeferre knows exactly how to go about that,” he says, lifting the covers and placing them over Enjolras.

“He usually does,” Enjolras answers, watching as Combeferre shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips.

“I’m going to see to your mother, Toussaint, and Adrienne, and then to make sure Cosette has worried Marius into submission, but let me know should you need anything,” Fauchelevent says. “And get some rest.”

Enjolras nods, eyes following him as he exits.

“I fear we need to change those bandages before I can let you sleep,” Combeferre says. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Enjolras is alone for only a moment before Grantaire enters, doing a poor job of masking his concern.

“Are you alright Enjolras?” he asks, hesitating in the doorway.

“I’m in pain, but I’m alright,” Enjolras answers, gesturing him forward. “Sit for a moment?”

Grantaire does as requested, but Enjolras can tell he’s still worried.

“I’m alright, Grantaire,” he says again, softening his tone. “I promise. Doctor Figueron says I’ll be fine if we’re careful. The infection is nearly gone; it’s just a matter of a slow recovery from these wounds.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes slightly, studying him.

“Courfeyrac talked to you, didn’t he?”

“He said you were very worried and wanted to help,” Enjolras admits. “And I could tell as much.”

“Did he tell you what happened the night we thought you might die?” Grantaire asks, but there’s no anger there, only curiosity.

“A bit,” Enjolras says. “He said you were upset.”

“He didn’t…” Grantaire pauses. “Did he tell you about my brother?”

Shock swoops through Enjolras’ person.

“Your…you have a brother?” he questions. “You never…”

“Told anyone?” Grantaire asks, a familiar bitterness wrapping around his words. “No. I don’t even know why, really. But he…he died while he was out giving alms to the poor, to the local gamin, and he was mugged by a street gang. There was nothing we could do. He was the oldest, and it ripped my parents apart. He was set to join the clergy.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, once again lost for words as the pieces of the mystery that makes up Grantaire start putting themselves together, though it still isn’t complete. “I’m so sorry.”

“I was afraid we were going to lose you,” Grantaire says, averting his eyes. “And so I told Courfeyrac about my brother, I told him that I was obviously terrible at coping with losing people I care about. God, the first thing I did when I heard you might die was start drinking, I couldn’t even complete one simple task when you entrusted it to me…”

“That might be true,” Enjolras says, cutting him off. “But I’ve also seen you these past few days; you shielded Gavroche with your own body at the barricade, tried shielding me from the army general, you carried me all the way through the sewers, you kept me from running out of the house when I was overcome with fever, you have been there if I needed anything while I’ve been ill. My point is that you are clearly capable, Grantaire, of being more than you think you are.”

“I thought you said I was incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying?” Grantaire says, smirking.

“I was frustrated with you when I said those things,” Enjolras says. “And I like now to think I was wrong.”

“You were _wrong_?” Grantaire says, amused. “I never thought…”

“Grantaire.”

“I apologize,” Grantaire says, sincere again. “But you weren’t wrong, Enjolras, and you had every right to be frustrated with me then, I…”

“Note that I did not say you were incapable of love,” Enjolras interrupts. “And that is a powerful thing. And I know that you love all of us, I have always known that. And that is why a part of me always believed you could be more than you appear.”

“Do you ever stop believing?” Grantaire questions, a mixture of reverence and bewilderment in his voice.

“No,” Enjolras answers simply.

Silence falls between them for a moment before Enjolras speaks up again.

“I hope you know that we all care about you, that I care about you,” he says, warmth coating his words. “Infuriating as you are sometimes.”

“You’re…” Grantaire begins.

“An ingrate?” Enjolras finishes, quirking one eyebrow. “Yes, I believe you’ve told me that before. But we may make a believer out of you yet, Grantaire.”

“I do believe in you,” Grantaire says in a barely-there whisper, and the words strike Enjolras even more forcefully than they did the first time he heard Grantaire speak them.

“I know,” Enjolras replies, handling the moment as carefully as he would a newborn child, sensing the change in Grantaire, a change of which he doesn’t want to harm the growth. He wants to tell Grantaire that to believe only in a fallible, human, man who is capable of error is a treacherous thing, but decides he will save that for later. He grasps Grantaire’s arm for a moment, letting him know his words are genuine, and Grantaire returns the gesture.

Just a few moments later, Combeferre returns with the bandages and Grantaire leaves to speak with Adrienne.

“Courfeyrac told you what happened with Grantaire the other night?” Combeferre asks, closing the door so he might change the bandages without interruption. “I was worried, but Courfeyrac handled it well, as I expected.”

“He spoke to me just before we got the news we were to move,” Enjolras answers, grimacing as the wrapping comes off his leg. “And asked me to reassure Grantaire. I hope I did so.”

“I’m sure you did,” Combeferre answers. “Aside from the one instance of drinking, he’s been a bit different since the barricade. I think the loss of our friends,” he stops his movement for a moment, closing his eyes. “I think instead of making him increasingly cynical, it made him want to fight to make sure the rest of us are safe, you especially. I like to hope it’s the start of a change in him. Like you, I’ve always thought him capable of more, if he would just cease getting in his own way. Cynicism doesn’t wear well on anyone and our friend is knee deep in it.”

“I like to think there’s been some progress, I hope there has been,” Enjolras says, feeling the exhaustion creep into his bones. “But I worry Combeferre, for all of us, I don’t want any of us to lose of our belief and I don’t want Grantaire’s lack of it increasing. Fighting for that belief, for our cause, it’s at the core of my soul.”

“I know,” Combeferre says, taking a moment to smile at Enjolras before moving to change his shoulder bandage. “And we won’t lose that belief. I certainly know you won’t; it’s too large a part of who you are, it’s too large a part of all of us, too much a part of the friends we’ve lost. But in grief, sometimes, all seems distorted.”

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees. “Yes, you’re right.”

“We will talk more once you’ve slept,” Combeferre says. “You’re due for another dose of Laudanum. Overdue.”

And so Enjolras begrudgingly accepts the foul medication, and only minutes later, sleep captures him and carries him away on its waves.

* * *

 

Javert goes alone to the address Valjean gave him, the address that’s burned into his brain.

One, because he’s not certain he’s right.

Two, because he’s still not certain what he’s going to do if he is.

His heart beats wildly in his chest as he approaches number seven; he’d never wanted to see Valjean again, never wanted to think of him again, had only wanted to end his life in the murky depths of the Seine.

But no.

No, Valjean’s daughter saved him, and attempting to throw yourself into the river a second time isn’t so easy once the initial impulse has left you.

He’d hoped his superiors wouldn’t assign him to this case, and the pressure raining down on him has only increased now that Inspector Ancel most surprisingly located the whereabouts of the leader of another of the barricades, a leader they’d thought dead.

But they did assign him, and now the only way out is death or resignation.

Currently, death seems the better option.

He moves closer, noting that no lights are on in the house and yet it’s just after sundown and too early for all of them to have retired.

 _If the rebels are there in the first place_ , he tells himself.

 _Oh, they’re there_ , a second voice answers. _You know they are_. _24601 can’t help himself with saving people._

_The man of mercy comes again, and talks of justice…_

Before once again starting the internal battle with himself, he knocks.

“Police,” he says firmly. “Open the door.”

He snorts. As if Valjean would simply waltz over and open the door for an officer of the law and invite him in for coffee.

Although knowing Valjean, he just might.

There’s resolutely no answer, and in light of the insurrection, the king has suspended the need for warrants to search suspected premises of insurgent leaders. And although he hates himself for having the skill, Javert makes quick work of the lock, the door creaking loudly as it swings open.

He prays that he’ll find no evidence, that Valjean and his daughter have simply vacated the home for other reasons, have gone out of town, that they have nothing whatsoever to do with the missing rebels, with Enjolras.

_But he was carrying the Pontmercy boy…_

But still he searches, driven by his duty even as his head pounds agonizingly with conflict. He searches the entrance hall, the kitchen, the alcoves, but it’s not until he’s about to head to the second floor that he notices it, draped almost absentmindedly on one of the chairs in the front room.

A blood-stained red jacket.

Enjolras’ jacket.

A/N: I realize this is a bit of cliffhanger, and therefore I hope you don’t hate me. But just remember to trust me, okay? I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and do let me know what you thought!


	13. A Man Named Jean Valjean

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

Chapter 13: A Man Named Jean Valjean

Three days pass, and there’s no sign of Javert.

But the tension levels in the house rise slowly, agonizingly higher, and Enjolras feels it aching in his bones, burning in his chest, forming knots in his stomach. Rationally he knows that his friends are safe here, that M. Fauchelevent can be trusted, that it would be incredibly difficult for Inspector Javert to trace them here.

But he’d much rather get his friends safely out of Paris.

And he knows his friends want _him_ out of Paris.

But he also knows that neither he nor Marius is in any condition for the six or seven day carriage ride to Avignon, so here they must stay, for now. He’s just woken up again after being forced to into sleep by Combeferre, and awoke to an oddly empty room.

The door creaks on its hinges, alerting him to his mother’s presence.

“I was just coming into check on you,” she says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking his hand out of instinct. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he says truthfully. “Still in pain, still tired, but better, even though I know I must look a fright. Only a low-grade fever now, Combeferre says. It should be gone in a day or two.”

A marked, uncomfortable silence falls between them, and Enjolras feels his mother’s anxiety pulsing through her veins when she brushes his hair from his eyes out of habit. It was always falling into his eyes as a child, and now that he’s an adult it’s no different.

“I’ll be alright Maman,” he says softly, feeling the desperate need to put her at ease. “It will just take some recovery time.”

“You’re not alright,” she replies, hesitant terror glittering in her eyes that so mirror his own, and Enjolras realizes in that moment that she surely thought him dead for at least several days, so it’s almost as if he’s been resurrected. “You’ve been shot, you nearly _died_ , Rene, the police are looking for you…” she stops abruptly. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to make this worse for you, I’ve only been…”

“Holding it in?” he asks, finishing her thought. “Yes, I thought as much.”

And then she’s embracing him with careful tenderness, and she’s so close he can smell the perfume she’s used since he can remember. He returns the gesture, resting his head on her shoulder and exhaling a breathe he didn’t know he was holding.

“I would have you and your friends home with me in an instant,” she tells him, pulling him closer. “But I know the police will look there if they’re able.”

“Have you sent word to père?” Enjolras says, asking the question he’s been avoiding for days because thinking of his father fills him with fury and breaks his heart all at once. He’s tried to encase himself in ice when it comes to that relationship, but it hasn’t been entirely possible.

“I sent him a letter the moment I thought you might be alive,” she tells him. “But there hasn’t been time for me to receive his answer just yet. But I know if the authorities go looking for you at home, he’ll turn them away. He might disagree with you Rene, but he doesn’t want you arrested, doesn’t want you dead. Of that I’m certain.”

Enjolras nods, knowing she’s right, but the fact that his father doesn’t want him dead or in prison does little to ease the sting of his rejection. Enjolras doesn’t regret his own actions in the least, doesn’t regret turning his back and walking out of the house that fateful day, but he still wishes his father would bother listening to his thoughts and opinions, would bother trying to understand why his son must fight so hard for this cause.; it would certainly be easier on his mother.

 “When do you have to go back home?”

“There is no ‘when I have to’ in this situation,” she says firmly. “I shall go when I know you’re safe in the country and away from here. M. Fauchelevent told me he was happy to have me stay at my leisure, and both he and M. Gillenormand told me I’m welcome to visit in Avignon. It’s not a terrible journey from Marseille, in any case. But you must listen to M. Fauchelvent, Rene, you must promise me.”

“I will,” Enjolras agrees.

 _I don’t know how to be a fugitive_ , he wants to say. _But I’ll have to learn._

 _But,_ he continues. _M. Fauchelevent might know._

Enjolras doesn’t usually speak of fate, of destiny, but something tells him that M. Fauchelevent rescuing them, as opposed to anyone else, is not an accident.

He’d know the moment he whispered the word revolution within the hallowed walls of the top floor of the Musain that becoming a fugitive was one of only three possibilities, but the reality of it is different, as is usually the case with these things. He doesn’t tell his mother that if turning himself in will save his remaining friends that he’ll do it in a heartbeat. He will spare her that, because he cannot spare her anything else.

“I’ve told Combeferre and Courfeyrac that I’ll contact their families on my journey home, since they live in the south as well and are not far off my route,” she says, gazing at him with an expression that makes him think she’s reading his thoughts. “I asked Feuilly if there was anyone I could contact for him, but…”

“He doesn’t have any family to speak of,” Enjolras says sadly. “He lost his father at eight, his mother at 9, and he’s been on his own ever since. He’s a self-taught man, will read anything he can get his hands on, knows all kinds of things about history in other countries, and yet he’s never gotten the chance to go to a university. His intelligence, his determination, his craving for education...”

His mother smiles at him, placing her small hand on the side of his face.

“You have always had a heart full of fire,” she says, a melancholy affection in her tone. “And I much as I wish it didn’t put you in peril, I do not want you to be any other way, because then you would not be the man you are.”

She named him correctly, Enjolras thinks. Rene means “reborn” and it is his greatest desire to give France new life, even if it means the cost of his own.

“I’m accompanying Toussaint and Adrienne to the market,” she continues, patting his hand. “But I’ll see you after a little while.”

He bids her farewell, but is only alone for a moment when Combeferre takes her place, looking a smidge tickled.

“What’s so humorous?” Enjolras asks, curious.

“I just left the others trying to convince Gavroche into the new clothes M. Fauchelvent purchased for him,” Combeferre answers, a twinkle in his eyes. “Cosette was going to do it, but she went to lay down with a headache, and so left it to Courfeyrac, and the others couldn’t help but join in.”

Enjolras smiles; Gavroche has been thrilled to sleep consistently in a real bed, but it’s hard to imagine him in stiff new clothes, even if he desperately needs them. Gavroche stays with them because Enjolras fears the repercussions if the police recognize him from the barricade; he might be a child, but that won’t prevent them from questioning him about their whereabouts, and none of them want him in any kind of danger.

But Gavroche also stays because it’s clear he can’t bear to leave them.

Really they’re all he has, and the effects of watching so many of their comrades die, of losing Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, and Prouvaire, are obvious, even in such a high-spirited child.

“Combeferre?” Enjolras asks.

“Hmm?” Combeferre replies, looking at his friend over the tops of his glasses. “Something the matter?”

“I need to speak with you about something,” Enjolras answers, keeping himself steady in anticipation of Combeferre’s inevitable protest. “Something I’d like to keep private between us.”

“Alright,” Combeferre says slowly, drawing out the word in uncertainty. “What is it?”

“If something happens to me,” Enjolras begins, holding his friend’s gaze. “I need you to protect the others.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says instantly, furrowing his brows. “Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“You don’t know that for certain,” Enjolras argues. “My face is all over Paris Combeferre, and I will not stand for any of you to come to harm because of me.”

“You are our friend, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, gentle even in his harshness. “And we would not come to harm _because_ of you. Not only do we want to stand by you personally, but we were fighting for this cause, too. We are just as willing to accept the consequences.”

“I know that very well,” Enjolras says, keeping his voice low. “And that’s even more reason for me to ask this of you. We need people to live for this cause, Combeferre, enough have died already. And if the government’s focus on me means the rest of you can be free to fight on, then so be it.”

Combeferre peers at him, eyes narrowed in slight frustration.

“You don’t have to die,” he says, voice almost a whisper. “There is a real chance for our safety, I believe that.”

“I know,” Enjolras says again. “I’m only asking this as a precaution, I’m not going to go offer myself up right this moment, I wouldn’t do that to any of you. But if Javert somehow finds us and my arrest is inevitable, I want a plan in place. I don’t want the others offering themselves up on my behalf, I cannot…”

Without warning Enjolras’ voice breaks and he stops mid-sentence, closing his eyes against the tears that threaten him, tears that have threatened him for days. Grantaire had once teasingly called him the “marble lover of liberty,” but right now he feels infinitely more vulnerable than marble, feels so very human that it cuts to his core. Combeferre allows him a moment, resting a hand on his back.

“We have lost four of our closest friends already, as well as a great number of comrades,” Enjolras finally says. “I cannot bear the thought of the rest of you meeting the same fate, not when there’s a chance for you to live.”

“We cannot bear the thought of losing _you_ ,” Combeferre argues, wetness around his eyes. “Which I think is evident given our reactions a few nights ago. And yet you dare request this of me Enjolras, knowing that I might consent only because you asked it of me.”

“I didn’t _want_ to ask you,” Enjolras replies, putting a hand on top of Combeferre’s. “I didn’t want to burden you, but it is five lives versus one. There is no need for all of you…”

“I will protect the others,” Combeferre tells him, voice wavering ever so slightly. “I promise you. But if you think that means I will not also attempt to protect you, then you are mistaken.”

Enjolras can’t help but smile at his words.

“I would share your fate,” Combeferre says, meeting his eyes. “You have to know that.”

“I do,” Enjolras answers, squeezing his friend’s hand. “I do know.”

They hear footsteps approaching, and after a moment Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius, and Gavroche are all in the doorway, Gavroche sporting a rather sour expression; he’s dressed in fresh trousers, shirt, and jacket, although he apparently weaseled out of the waistcoat.

“I see you were victorious, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, raising his eyebrows at Gavroche in amusement.

“Took some doing,” Courfeyac replies, planting a hand on Gavroche’s mussed hair.

“And some squirming,” Grantaire adds. “But we think he looks rather nice, ourselves.”

“Oh be quiet you lot,” Gavroche says, crossing his arms moodily across his chest. “Never said I gave a rat for fashion.”

“Fashion, maybe not,” Courfeyrac says, an indulgent grin on his face. “But you should ‘give a rat’ for cleanliness. Anyhow, we didn’t come in here to tease Gavroche.” His expression grows serious, and he looks toward Enjolras. “Feuilly thinks maybe we ought to try talking to M. Fauchelevent while we’ve got the chance.”

“Your mother, Toussaint, and Adrienne are out,” Feuilly explains. “And Cosette is upstairs with a bit of a headache, so we might have some privacy. I just think we’d all like to know the truth; it would put us more at ease, and the tension in the air right now is thick enough.”

He looks at Enjolras for permission, for agreement. Enjolras senses that Feuilly’s instinct against trusting an essential stranger is kicking in, and he cannot blame him; Feuilly has seen the harder side of life, has had his trust betrayed while he tried to find his feet in life. Feuilly trusting the other Amis was a sign of the strength of their friendship, and Enjolras can tell Feuilly is torn between his natural generosity and his suspicion where M. Fauchelevent is concerned. Enjolras feels an innate trust in the older man, but even still, knowing the truth about his identity, about his confrontation with Javert, will perhaps make them all sleep easier at night. They’ve thrown in their lots together, and honesty almost seems a requirement now.

“I don’t think that’s a bad idea,” Enjolras says. “He’s done a great deal for us and I don’t want him to feel as if he’s being confronted, so we need to be careful.

“I can go find him,” Marius offers, looking a bit jumpy; this is the father of Marius’ beloved, after all, but something tells Enjolras that if Fauchlevent can raise a daughter as kind as Cosette, his crime cannot have been all that serious.

And yet Inspector Javert trailed him, but he also let him go free…

“Don’t be ridiculous Marius,” Courfeyrac says, turning to go. “You’re meant to be in bed as it is. I’ll go.”

He’s gone for only a moment, and yet when they hear him approaching again with M. Fauchelevent, the older man is already chuckling appreciatively at something Courfeyrac’s said, and Enjolras is quietly grateful for his friend’s easy going nature, at his warmth and talent with people.

“You boys wanted to speak with me?” Fauchlevent asks, a nervous smile on his lips, as if he suspects the nature of their question.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, cutting to the chase. “We wanted to ask you about something that happened the night you rescued us from the barricade, something that Grantaire happened to overhear.”

Fauchelevent stiffens instantaneously, and Enjolras’ eyes flit wordlessly to Courfeyrac.

“We don’t mean to intrude upon personal matters monsieur,” Courfeyrac adds amiably. “You have done an unspeakable amount for us, but the truth about the confrontation you had with Inspector Javert would put us all at ease, I think.”

“As he has been assigned to find me,” Enjolras continues, looking Fauchelevent directly in the eyes, but the man’s expression is too difficult to fathom. “And as we left your other home so quickly when we found this out, yet we also know he released you with Marius…we need to understand the pieces of this story, that is all we ask monsieur, to possess all the information we need to protect ourselves.”

“Inspector Javert knew the address of my other home,” Fauchelevent says, a bit sharper than Enjolras has yet heard him. “He will not find us here.”

“No disrespect monsieur,” Grantaire says cordially, speaking up. “But you don’t know that. The inspector seemed rather intent that night from what I could tell, and even still he released you. It doesn’t make sense.”

“We have all agreed that we are incredibly indebted to you,” Combeferre says. “And we are certainly not here to judge you.”

“You are a good man monsieur,” Enjolras says in agreement, sincerity in his tone. “Gavroche has told us how you give alms to the poor, and you came to the barricade to save Marius at great risk to you own life and then saved as many of us as you could. We would appreciate your honesty, not punish you for it.”

“We give you our word on that,” Marius says. “We would know the man who saved our lives.”

Fauchelevent softens a bit, sighing apprehensively.

“What exactly did you hear?” he asks, looking at Grantaire.

“I heard Javert confront you,” Grantaire says, twisting his fingers in his lap. “Heard him tell you he would not give in, heard him call you 24601 and…and Valjean. The man of mercy. And then he let you go with Marius.”

Valjean is silent for a moment, and Enjolras sees the pain glimmering in his eyes, and he fervently wishes that they didn’t have to dredge up what are clearly terrible memories for this man.

And yet there is no other choice.

“That is my name,” Fauchelevent finally says, closing his eyes for a moment as if saying the name brings an entirely different person to life. “Jean Valjean. 24601 was my prison number at Toulon, in the galleys.”

He looks around at all of them, waiting for judgment, waiting for harsh words, but they only let him continue.

“I had a sister with seven children,” he says, eyes falling to the floor. “And we were starving. So one night I broke the window of a baker’s shop and stole a loaf of bread, but I was caught before I could even make it back home. I was given five years for my crime, but I tried to escape several times and so served nineteen years in full before they put me on parole.”

He stops, letting the information sink in, and Enjolras feels the injustice of the story burning like wildfire in his heart. Nineteen years for what amounted to one loaf of bread. Jean Valjean is not a rapist, not a murder, not a thief who stole some large sum of money.

He is man who wanted to save his family, no matter the cost to himself.

And despite the difference in circumstance that’s something to which Enjolras can whole-heartedly relate.

“Javert was a guard there,” Valjean continues. “And was the one who gave me my parole papers. But no matter where I went, it was nearly impossible to find steady work, food, or shelter, because of the stigma of being a convict. Hate filled my heart, and so one evening when a kindly bishop offered me shelter and food for the evening, I…” he stops, and it seems as if the words he’s avoiding stab him like knives. “I stole some of his silver. I was caught on the way out of town, but when they brought me back to his home, the bishop told them he’d given me the silver and proceeded to give me the silver candlesticks that rest on the mantel in the parlor. He bid me to start a new life, to be an honest man.”

“And you broke your parole,” Enjolras says lightly. “Hence the name change.”

“Yes,” Valjean says, nodding. “Fauchelevent is not the first name I’ve had, but that is of little matter. It was the only way for me to start over, and I did the best I could to be the man the bishop would have wished me to be, because it was the least I could do; he saved my life, my soul. And that’s why I’m compelled to help you boys, because if it weren’t for bishop, I don’t know that I would have ever found my way out an increasingly difficult situation.”

“And Cosette?” Marius asks, albeit gently. “Is she not your daughter?”

“Biologically speaking, no,” Valjean answers. “She is the daughter of one of the workers I employed in a factory I owned in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Her mother died, and I adopted Cosette and love her as my own. But the full story of that is Cosette’s to tell.”

Enjolras suspects that Valjean is humbling himself significantly, suspects that this man has likely done more good than he will ever let them know.

“And Javert has trailed you all these years?” Feuilly asks, all traces of suspicion gone when he hears Valjean speaking about adopting Cosette.

“For breaking my parole,” Valjean says. “We have had several encounters, but despite that, I released him at the barricade, and that I am certain, is what prompted him to release me with Marius, even if it broke every last code he holds dear. He wrestles with the idea that a former convict is capable of good deeds, wrestles with the idea of the mere existence of mercy, of change.”

“Cosette said she saw an officer looking as if he was about to jump into the Seine the night she came looking for us at the barricade,” Marius says, the pieces flying together behind his eyes. “Was that Javert?”

“Yes,” Valjean replies. “Yes, I am positive about that.”

“Do you know what his movements might be?” Enjolras says, asking the question he knows is on everyone’s minds.

“Before I would have told you yes,” Valjean says honestly. “But now…I am not sure. I feel that he won’t want to confront me further, but I also know he feels bound by his duty, and this conflict he’s having, a conflict that caused him to nearly commit suicide…I fear it might make him even more dangerous, more determined. We must be careful. Thankfully he does not know the names I used to purchase my properties, but even still, I do not yet trust the situation. But I will do my best to keep all of you safe, that I can promise you.”

Silence envelops the room, and Enjolras can tell by the look in Valjean’s eyes that he is ashamed to admit his past, that some part of him will be forever haunted by the memories.

“Monsieur Valjean,” Enjolras says testing out the new name and clasping a hand on the man’s shoulder, causing him to look up. “Thank you. For telling us. For everything.”

Valjean’s smile is stitched with sadness, but he rests a warm hand briefly over Enjolras’.

“I would like to keep this between us and Cosette, if that’s alright,” Valjean says, looking at each of them before his eyes land on Marius. “I don’t want this affecting any of your intentions toward Cosette, Marius. Your grandfather, I…”

“Monsieur,” Marius says, resting his own hand on Valjean’s shoulder. “You are a saint. A saint of a man who has raised an angel of a daughter. If anything, I am only further encouraged.”

Valjean shakes his head at the compliment but smiles anyway.

“We’d best get you back to bed before Cosette finds you out again,” Valjean says in reply. “I think I hear her stirring upstairs.”

“I would rather not face her well-intentioned wrath,” Marius says, looking increasingly relieved and allowing Valjean to help him up. “Although I fear that when Enjolras is able to be up and about he will be worse than I am.”

“Now that is absolutely true,” Combeferre agrees, sharing an amused look with Marius.

“As if any of you would be any better,” Enjolras grumbles good-naturedly.

“Loads better,” Grantaire teases. “And that’s the truth.”

“Well, you’d both best behave,” Valjean says, laughing now. “Doctor Figueron will be by in an hour, and he will not be pleased if either of you aggravate your wounds.”

With that he goes to help Marius back up the stairs before Cosette awakes, and Enjolras thinks to himself that they have just come under the wing of one of the most selfless men he’s ever met.

* * *

 

If Javert didn’t know Valjean better, he would think that the convict left the red jacket there to mock him.

As it is…

The jacket is still mocking him.

He should have trusted his instincts, should have known the instant Enjolras and his lieutenants were missing that the Pontmercy boy wasn’t the only insurgent 24601 rescued. He should have gone instantly to the address Valjean gave him the moment he suspected a thing and arrested that foolish schoolboy on the spot. He just missed them, he knows, could practically still feel the intensity of their hurry to leave the moment he stepped into foyer, and that makes him all the more frustrated.

 _But that would have meant facing Valjean again_.

_That would have meant being faced with everything that nearly sent you spiraling off a very literal bridge._

Despite the fact that Javert was at this particular barricade, his superiors do not believe there is enough evidence to arrest the lieutenants and bring them to trial (and they are also trying to show the people that they can be merciful and not altogether bloodthirsty while still remaining firm), but have told him to use what force is necessary against the others should they attempt to protect Enjolras, even if it means arresting them for obstruction of justice. The leader Inspector Ancel discovered is set for trial in a matter of days, and his sentence will be either life imprisonment or death.

But the Prefect suspects, as does Javert, that only a firing squad awaits that boy, because Louis-Phillipe wants to prove that his reign remains solid.  

And a firing squad makes a much better example than a prison cell.

Javert feels the pressure building behind his eyes and rubs his temples with his fingers. He told no one that he went searching at Valjean’s residence because he had previous knowledge; instead he told them he’d received a tip from one of the neighbors.

Because he cannot possibly tell them the truth, cannot tell them he knowingly allowed an ex-convict who broke his parole go free with not only one rebel, but unknowingly with five more, including the sought after leader whose face is plastered all over Paris.

 _You are not capable of arresting Valjean_ , that dark voice in the corner of his mind whispers again. _And you know it._

 _Perhaps not_ , he tells himself. _But I am capable of arresting Enjolras._

_Are you certain?_

He shakes his head and internally begs for mental quiet, looking up again.

“Bertrand!” he calls through the open door of his office. “I need property records!”

His underling rushes inside, looking overtly intimidated.

“Property records monsieur?” he asks timidly. “For whom?”

“I…” Javert thinks for a moment rifling his brain for any pseudonyms Valjean might have used. “Try Madeline. Bring me everything you have with the last name Madeline in all of Paris.”

“Yes Inspector,” Bertrand says, rushing gladly out again.

Javert goes back to staring at the jacket.

 

 

 

 

               

                                               

 

 

 


	14. Remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am putting a FEELS warning on this chapter, as I got emotional while writing it and watching the Les Mis film on loop. But I do hope you enjoy!

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

 Chapter 14: Remembrance

_Sunlight bathes Enjolras in warmth, bathes him in warmth so pleasant that he doesn’t want to open his eyes, just wants to lay here and sleep._

_Until he hears the voice._

_“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Bahorel says, and Enjolras can hear him snickering good-naturedly. “It’s typical of you, taking too much on your shoulders, blaming yourself.”_

_Enjolras sits up like a shot._

_“Bahorel?” he asks, eyes widening as he looks over his friend’s form. He looks like Bahorel alright, broad, grinning slyly, fists that look like they could punch through concrete and donning the brightest red and yellow striped waist-coat Enjolras has ever seen._

_“Ah, glad to see you still recognize me,” Bahorel jokes. “Although admittedly, I’m a little difficult to forget.”_

_“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” Enjolras asks. “Or did I die?”_

_“No, you’re not dead, thankfully,” Bahorel says, a smidge softer now. “Combeferre would be furious if you were, he’s put too much effort into nursing you back to health. And Grantaire didn’t carry you all that way so you could die, either, and I don’t think Gavroche would ever forgive you for such a crime. You and Marius have been worrying everyone.”_

_“So dreaming, then.”_

_“Dreaming. A visit from the great beyond. Something in between,” Bahorel answers, his grin growing wider before turning serious, and when Bahorel is serious, Enjolras pays attention. “Now you listen here, Enjolras. You need to stop feeling guilty over our deaths. Grieving us is only natural, but no more guilt.”_

_“I’m not,” Enjolras stammers. “I…”_

_“Our awe-inspiring leader is lost for words!” Bahorel teases. “And yes, you are feeling guilty. Isn’t he Jehan?”_

_“He is,” Jehan says, inexplicably walking up beside Bahorel and sitting down on the grass, his shoulder-length light brown hair fluttering in the breeze. He’s somber, but he still offers Enjolras a melancholy smile that Enjolras can’t help but return. “And he shouldn’t be.”_

_“I’ll third that,” Joly says, appearing behind him with cane in hand and instantly tossing an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder._

_“I’d add in my lot,” Bossuet says with a half-smile before sitting down next to Joly. “But I’m rather afraid I’d jinx it.”_

_Enjolras gazes around at them all, soaking up their presence, soaking up the moment, even if it’s just a dream. They’re themselves in this particular unconscious venture; they’re whole, rather than the black-eyed, blood drenched specters haunting him during his fever-ridden nights._

_“I know you were at the barricades because you wanted to be,” he tells them. “I know this cause meant as much to you as it does to me, that you were willing to die for it, that you did die for it, I just…I still wanted to protect you. All of you. I would rather it have been me.”_

_“And that’s just the problem,” Jehan says quietly, peering at Enjolras and twirling a tiny picked flower between his fingers. “You need to stop wishing yourself dead instead of us, Enjolras. You are alive, and there’s a reason for that. You need to find that reason and use it.”_

_“I know,” Enjolras says, his voice tight with held back feeling. “I…”_

_“You miss us and you’re traumatized,” Joly says simply. “It’s hasn’t even been two weeks, Enjolras, give yourself some time to grieve, to recover. Grieve, not guilt. It’s bad for your health anyway, you know. It causes…”_

_“I don’t think he needs a laundry list of the physical manifestations of guilt,” Bossuet says with a chuckle, tapping Joly lightly on the shoulder._

_“We…we feel like a broken unit without you,” Enjolras admits, looking around at each of them in turn. He looks down, memories of the barricade flooding his mind with sharp, painful clarity._

**_You at the barricade listen to this! The people of Paris sleep in their beds! You have no chance, no chance at all! Why throw your lives away?_ **

**_Damn their warnings, damn their lies, they will see the people rise…_ **

_“I’m sorry the people didn’t come,” he continues, clenching his fists. “I was so certain…they abandoned us because of their fear…”_

_At hearing the hint of uncharacteristic doubt flood his voice, Enjolras feels Jehan take his hand and pull him closer so that they’re face to face, a gentle but still intrepid gleam in the poet’s eyes as he intertwines their fingers._

_“One day they will rise,” Jehan tells him, gripping his hand with ferocity. “And you know that, Enjolras. You’ve always known that. You have eternal faith in the beauty that will be the future, you have more belief than anyone I’ve ever known, as well as the strength to fight, to make the hard decisions, and I will not see you let go of that. The 19 th century is great, but the 20th century will be happy, remember?”_

_“Our sacrifice will mean something,” Joly adds sagely. “Of that I can promise you.”_

_“And you will keep fighting,” Bossuet says. “All of you will. Together. Always together.”_

_“In memory of you,” Enjolras says firmly. “Always in memory of you.”_

_“And for Patria,” Bahorel says, teasing but sincere. “Can’t have you forgetting about your Mistress France.”_

_For the first time since the barricade, even if it is just a dream, Enjolras’ smile reaches his eyes, and they shine a sparkling blue as he etches his friends’ faces in his mind. He has a sudden urge to ask Grantaire to pick up his paintbrush again so he can paint their friends’ faces so he never forgets them, so that none of them ever forget the way Bahorel’s grin always fills to the brim with laughter, the way Jehan’s eyes glow with bright fervor when he discovers a new poem, the way Bossuet’s expressions are nearly always bursting with some degree of cheer, even when he’s distressed, the way Joly always rubs the tip of his nose with his cane absentmindedly, a smile spreading slowly across his face when someone says something amusing._

_“We have to go now, I’m afraid,” Bahorel says. “But do tell the others hello for us.”_

_“I will,” Enjolras answers as Bahorel pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. “And I will also tell Courfeyrac how much he would have hated that waistcoat,” he adds mildly._

_Bahorel’s laugh rings through the surrounding sky. “Nonsense, Courfeyrac would love this. Feuilly would hate it though. Likes too many soft colors for a fan painter. I’d expect more flare.”_

_Bahorel ruffles his hair before letting go, then Joly and Bossuet hug him both at once with great enthusiasm and he memorizes the moment. Jehan hugs him last._

_“Remember what I said,” he warns. “Or I shall write a very angry poem about it.”_

_“I promise,” Enjolras whispers back._

_And then they’re gone._

Enjolras’ eyes open slowly, and there’s sunlight filtering in through the window; he’s in pain as is usually the case in the mornings, and shifts up, trying to avoid making it worse. He doesn’t like taking Laudanum in the morning because it makes him hazy, but he fears he may not have a choice on this particular day.

“You’re awake earlier than usual,” Grantaire’s voice says from his right, and Enjolras opens his eyes fully and turns his head.

“Am I?” he asks, sitting up further, wincing.

“It’s only about nine,” Grantaire answers, noting his expression and pouring a dose of the Laudanum, which Enjolras waves away in protest, and to his surprise Grantaire doesn’t force the matter.

“Combeferre would insist I take that,” Enjolras says, glancing at the bottle, perplexed.

“Well, I am decidedly not Combeferre,” Grantaire jokes fondly. “No glasses, less medical training, and although I’m well read, seem to lack the ability to keep all the information ever created in my brain.”

Enjolras chuckles softly, but sadness swoops through his stomach when he remembers his very recent dream.

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire asks, searching Enjolras’ face. “Did you have another nightmare?”

“No, not at all,” Enjolras says, looking up at him and once again seeing the genuine concern in his eyes. “It was a pleasant dream, actually. I saw…I saw Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel, and they weren’t like they have been in my nightmares, they were just…themselves.”

A sad smile tweaks Grantaire’s lips and he looks down for a moment, words for once, evading him. Grantaire is famous for his diatribes and Enjolras is capable of speaking at length to crowds, of inspiring them with his words that are lit with the living, breathing flame of his passion, of his love, and yet in the face of this grief, they are both rendered silent.

“Their funerals,” Enjolras says, the hint of a revelation in his voice. “They must have…my mother said she saw bodies being retrieved from the barricade, so their families…there must have been funerals.”

Grantaire looks at him again, mildly startled.

“Yes, Enjolras I’m sure there were funerals,” he says slowly, as if he’s concerned that fever has once more overcome Enjolras and he will bolt for the door as he had on that first night.

“We didn’t get to attend them,” Enjolras clarifies, feeling as if someone has sent a fist flying directly into his gut. In all of the rush, in all of the insanity, this thought hadn’t occurred to him until now.

“No,” Grantaire says, the realization dawning on him. “No we didn’t. But funerals…sometimes they don’t help, they just make you feel worse.” His word are sprinkled with cynicism and yet he speaks them with the utmost gentleness as if he fears he will break something, fears he will break himself, Enjolras, or both, and Enjolras can almost see the colored memories of his brother’s funeral swirling beneath Grantaire’s dark green eyes.

“We need to honor them,” Enjolras insists. “We need to do something, Grantaire, we must.”

Before Grantaire can respond there’s a soft knock on the door and Cosette enters, carrying a tea tray.

“Sorry for interrupting, but I made Marius some tea when he woke up and I thought you might like some,” she says, setting the tray down on the bedside table and smiling warmly at the two of them.

“Thank you Cosette,” Enjolras replies. “That was kind of you. How is Marius this morning? He went to bed earlier than usual last night.”

“He’s doing better, on the mend,” she answers, pouring one cup for Enjolras and one for Grantaire. “Though he did rip his bandages in the night, so Combeferre is changing them now and checking him over. I think he must have had a nightmare, because I heard him shouting and insisting he needed to come and check on all of you, kept saying something must have happened to you, Enjolras. It took him a moment to realize he’d only been dreaming. I had to stop him from bolting down here.”

“It’s a shame we can’t shut our minds off, sometimes,” Grantaire reflects aloud, taking a gulp of his tea.

“Bolting after a nightmare seems to be a habit amongst us,” Enjolras adds with a glance at Grantaire, remembering his first fever dream and his subsequent tussle with his friend. “Luckily people seem to be adept at stopping us.”

“You came at me like a wall and knocked me to the floor,” Grantaire says, laughing now. “And you don’t even have use of both arms and legs at the moment. The sheer power of your stubbornness even when you are ridden with fever is truly a thing to behold, Enjolras. How did you stop Marius, Cosette, and come away unscathed?”

“I was checking on him while he was still sleeping,” Cosette says. “And noticed he was distressed and pinned his arms down. He nearly struck me with his elbow when he woke up, he was under so much duress, but luckily he missed. Now he won’t stop apologizing.”

“That sounds like Marius,” Enjolras says, good-naturedly shaking his head.  

“I didn’t mean to overhear,” Cosette says after a moment. “But I heard you mention not being able to go to your friends’ funerals and I…I think I might have an idea. It’s not the same, but I spoke to Papa last night, and I thought perhaps you might…like to have a sort of wake for them? Light a candle, say a prayer? I don’t know if that would help, I just…” she trails off, blushing slightly but still determined to get her thoughts across. “I thought it might be good for all of you.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen slightly, but affection for the kind young woman he’s getting to know blossoms within him. He’s watched her gentleness and patience with Marius as he heals, has watched her with Valjean, has been continually surprised at her desire to get to know all of them, of her desire to check in on him while he convalesces. Her father’s decision to save them has changed her life, but she’s accepted them with open arms and an even more welcoming soul.

“I think we all might like that,” Enjolras agrees. “I think we all might like that a great deal.”

* * *

 

 A few hours later finds all of them sitting in a semi-circle of chairs in the parlor. Combeferre has allowed Enjolras and Marius out of bed for only an hour, and even still the worry in his expression is evident. Enjolras looks at the solemn group arranged around him; Combeferre is to his right, eyes roving over all of them with concern; Courfeyrac sits to Enjolras’ left, his expression of sadness so poignant that it makes Enjolras’ heart shudder for missing his friend’s usual animation; Marius sits beside Courfeyrac, hand resting tightly in Cosette’s; Feuilly sits next to Combeferre, head bowed; Grantaire sits beside Feuilly, staring into the glasses of wine Toussaint has brought them all, swirling it around in the glass, and Gavroche sits so close his arm brushes Grantaire’s. Adrienne and Enjolras’ mother sit together beside Gavroche, both observers of and participants in this intimate moment of intense grief.

Valjean lights two large silver candlesticks that rest on the edges of the mantel, their flames glowing brightly in the dimmed room, lit in memory of all of their comrades who met at the Musain, for all of their comrades that fought upon various barricades across Paris those that fateful fifth and sixth of June. To Enjolras it is feels far and yet alarmingly near, feels like over the last week and half his life became something completely different from what he knew, from what he expected.

“Bless them, Lord,” Valjean says softly. “And keep them warm in your embrace.”

Valjean then takes his place beside Cosette and looks at Enjolras wistfully, empathy brimming in his eyes. Enjolras feels everyone’s eyes on him, and he searches for words, searches for comfort to give to them, to give to himself, drawing inspiration from his friends’ words in his dream, because he cannot forget them.

“Our friends,” Enjolras begins, willing his voice to stay under control, steadying when he feels Courfeyrac’s hand on his arm. “Were some of the bravest, passionate, selfless, and dedicated men I ever had the privilege of knowing. Our group of friends formed a family, still forms a family, and…” he stops, his grief tripping him and sending his words crashing down for a moment. “That will never change, even if they are gone from us. They will always, _always_ be a part of who we are, and I firmly believe that their sacrifice will lead to the realization of the free France we all dreamt of together. We will fight on, always in their memory.”

He halts again and Courfeyrac’s grip tightens encouragingly on his arm. “But that does not do everything to ease the pain of losing them, of missing them, and now, I’d like to remember them.”

He nods at Combeferre, who presses his hand before rising and walking slowly to the first unlit candle and lighting it with the utmost reverence.

“Jehan,” he whispers, voice reverberating with grief.

He sits down and Courfeyrac rises, lighting the second candle.

“Bahorel,” he says, the tiniest of smiles breaking through his melancholy and illuminating the darkness.

Feuilly follows him, and Enjolras sees tears swelling in his eyes, because he’s already so well-acquainted with death that experiencing it again, experiencing it so violently, can only bring back memories.

“Joly,” he says, tapping the candle lightly before lighting it.

Grantaire gets up, and Enjolras notices that his hands are shaking as he lights the candle, but still he manages it.

“Bossuet.” His voice is low, almost gravely when he speaks, and his eyes are trained to the floor as he walks back.

Gavroche pats Grantaire’s shoulder when he sits back down, then rises and joins Marius to light the last candle, both taking their matches and reaching into the center to light the wick.

“Eponine,” they say together, and Marius reaches down to embrace Gavroche before returning to his seat.

Enjolras notices something flit across Cosette’s face at the mention of Eponine; there’s certainly sorrow there, but Enjolras also notices an emotion that he cannot quite place a finger on, something that tells him Cosette somehow knew Marius’ friend. Valjean wished to let Cosette tell them the details of her own childhood if and when she was ready, but Enjolras senses now, that suffering was once the close companion of this generous-hearted girl that Marius loves.

Silence reigns for a few moments, and Enjolras lets it settle, lets it saturate  them, memories no doubt flitting around their minds, memories of these friends who can never be replaced, of these nearly holy bonds that cannot ever be severed, even in death.

“To our friends,” Enjolras finally says, and everyone retrieves their glasses. “To everything they stood for, to everything they were…and to everyone they loved.”

Everyone raises their glasses.

_Let the wine of friendship never run dry…_

* * *

 

The boys all go to bed early, exhausted from the emotional outpouring of the day; they’d shared stories for an hour before both Enjolras and Marius faltered and Combeferre ordered them back to their beds, but Valjean finds he cannot sleep, so he sits in his favorite chair by the parlor window that faces the street.

He doesn’t tell the boys, doesn’t tell Cosette, but he still doesn’t feel safe here at the Rue Plumet, doesn’t feel safe in Paris, won’t feel safe until they are all tucked away outside Avignon at M. Gillenormand’s expansive, unused home. The elderly man, so immensely grateful to for Valjean saving Marius’ life, has been unceasingly helpful; his monarchist alliances are seemingly forgotten in the hope of protecting his grandson and his friends. Gillenormand’s quite taken with Cosette, and Valjean’s heard him teasing Marius about when he’ll get around to proposing to the “sweetest, loveliest young woman he’s ever met” though Valjean suspects Marius is waiting until he’s fully recovered to come to him for permission, waiting until this precarious situation becomes even the tiniest bit more stable.

He hears three sets of footsteps approaching him and turns, seeing Cosette, Flora, and Adrienne taking chairs next to him.

“All is well?” he asks Cosette, taking her hand briefly in his. He’s informed her that he told the boys the truth, and she’s proud of him for that.

“They’re all sleeping,” she replies, squeezing his hand in return. “Peacefully, I hope.”

“They aren’t particularly adept at letting other people take care of them,” Adrienne says with a tired chuckle. “Stubborn, the lot of them, my brother especially.”

“I found Gavroche curled up next to Rene,” Flora says with a small smile. “But I couldn’t bear to move him. That little boy is capable of sleeping in the strangest places.”

Valjean opens his mouth to respond when he spies two police officers from his gaze out the window, walking toward the home next door. He’s up from the chair in an instant, and bidding the ladies to remain utterly silent, gestures for them to follow him. He opens the front door and moves silently into the garden, where all four of them hear the voices catching and floating on the air toward them.

“We were told you had a complaint Madame?” one officer says.

“Yes,” the woman says, looking unsure but plowing ahead nevertheless. “I know there are wanted posters up for one of the rebel leaders, and just a few nights ago I saw my neighbor, Monsieur Fauchelevent, arrive with two carriages full of young men, two of whom looked they’d been shot. I…I thought I should report it.”

The two officers share a glance, and Valjean thinks they’ve probably had other reports flowing in that were false alarms, but they can’t help but take every report seriously. As far as Valjean can tell, the city’s populace is torn in half by the recent rebellions; so many supported it and yet other still were firmly against it, yet none of the supporters had the courage to stir and join the students and workers who set up barricades all across the city. Valjean’s breath nearly leaves him as Cosette takes his hand at the officers’ next words.

“Thank you Madame,” the second officer responds. “The hour is late now and we do not have the power of the suspended warrants in order to search the house, but our superior Inspector Javert, who is in charge of this case does, and we will get word to him in the morning.”

The rest of conversation dies, Valjean’s ears ringing so loudly he can hardly think.

_We will get word to him in the morning…_

“We must get out and start our journey to Avignon,” he whispers urgently, turning to the three horror-struck women behind him. “We must get out tonight.”

A/N: I apologize for the cliffhanger, please don’t kill me. Be on the lookout for the next chapter!

 


	15. Escaping Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I am so, so profusely sorry for the week long delay with my update, I’m behind on just life in general; first I was home visiting family for Easter, and then came back home with what I thought was a cold but what I found out yesterday to be both a sinus infection AND a throat infection after my roommate dragged me to the doctor. That being said, this chapter was written under the influence of lots of decongestant, cough medicine, and antibiotics, so I do hope it’s coherent. But thank you again for reading, following, and for all of your wonderful feedback, it is so appreciated! Enjoy, it’s a long one!

 Les Hommes de la Miséricorde    

(Men of Mercy)

 

Chapter 15: Escaping Paris

Hands shake Combeferre awake with gentle urgency, and he knows he can’t have been asleep for more than an hour or so at best. He opens his eyes, vision bleary without his glasses, but he makes out Valjean’s face, and it’s pinched with anxiety.

“Monsieur Valjean?” he asks, confused. “What’s going on?”

“My neighbors reported me to the police on suspicion of housing insurgents,” Valjean says without hesitation. “I heard the officers say they would send Inspector Javert word in the morning, which means we have to leave here before daybreak. As soon as we can manage it.”

Combeferre gapes at him for a moment, hating how lost for words he is, and immediately thinking “what would Enjolras do?” But even though Enjolras is slowly on the mend he’s still ill, still very injured, and now Combeferre finds himself in the role of temporary chief when he’d much rather be a guide. He’s used to laying out the choices before Enjolras, debating the pros and cons, and then Enjolras decides. Combeferre sees all sides of any decision, while Enjolras is able to act swiftly and yet still justly; that’s why their friendship, their leadership, works so well together.

But now…

“Monsieur, moving Enjolras now, moving Marius,” Combeferre begins, seeing flashes of Marius falling to the cobblestones when he was shot, flashes of Enjolras dragging Prouvaire’s body toward the sewer, echoes of Enjolras’ stifled screams when Doctor Figueron pulled the bullet out of his leg, overtaking his mind.

“I know,” Valjean says, worry warping his voice. “I know, but if Inspector Javert comes here in the morning, he will arrest Enjolras for certain, could potentially arrest all of you. We don’t…there isn’t a choice, I’m afraid.”

“No,” Combeferre says, reaching for his glasses and slipping them on. “No I suppose there isn’t. What do you need me to do?”

“I’m going to ride quickly to M. Gillenormand’s and set up the stagecoaches, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Gavroche are downstairs helping Toussaint pack, and Cosette is assisting Marius. I need you to tend to Enjolras, get him as ready as you can for this journey. I believe Grantaire is saying goodbye to Adrienne, at the moment, as she and Flora will not be going with us.”

“Yes monsieur,” Combeferre says, pulling a set of the new clothes Valjean procured for all of them out of the drawer, a wave of immense appreciation flooding him. “Thank you, thank you for everything.”

Valjean looks at him for a moment placing a warm, encouraging hand on his shoulder.

“You’re incredibly welcome, Combeferre,” he says, affection in his voice. “At best I’m going to try and get us out of here in two hours, so I’d better go.”

Combeferre nods, bidding Valjean goodbye and quickly getting dressed before heading down the hallway to Enjolras’ room, stopping when he hears voices from the room next door. It’s Grantaire and his sister, and Combeferre listens for a moment, waiting for the proper moment to enter.

“You must promise me you won’t do anything rash Lucien,” Adrienne says firmly, and through the crack he can see her hands on either side of Grantaire’s head, her forehead resting lightly on his. “You must do as Monsieur Fauchelevent says, alright?”

“I will try,” Grantaire replies, and Combeferre can practically hear the small grin no doubt playing at his lips. But then his voice lowers, a stream of fear, of sadness becoming prominent. “I only…I’m _afraid_ , Adrienne. I’m so afraid of something happening to Enjolras, of something happening to any of them, I…they’re all so fearless and I’m…”

His words cease, and Combeferre sees Adrienne lean in to embrace her brother in an almost motherly fashion.

 _Oh Grantaire_ , he wants to say _, if only you could know how frightened I am right now, frightened of all the same things you fear._

He waits a beat and then knocks, moving into full view of the pair.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” he says. “I only wanted to see if you could help me get Enjolras downstairs in a little while, Grantaire.”

“Of course, yes,” Grantaire says, and Combeferre notices just how tired his eyes are, the skin beneath them purpling by the day. “Whatever you need.”

“I just need to wake him and check his bandages and then I’ll come get you,” Combeferre tells him, smiling at Adrienne. “You aren’t coming with us?”

“It would be two more people to transport,” Adrienne explains, wistful. “But we’re both planning on making our way for a visit soon.”

“I know we’ll all be glad of that,” Combeferre says. “Give me just a few minutes, Grantaire.”

With that he continues down the hallway, the murmuring of Cosette and Marius floating into his ears as he walks past. He reaches Enjolras’ room and hears Flora’s voice and steps back, not wanting to interrupt a private moment.

“My boy,” he hears her say to the still sleeping Enjolras. “My sweet, brave boy. I know…I know you had to fight for this, but I…I’m so afraid of losing you, I…” she stops, looking up, and Combeferre backs away further, but his steps creak on the floorboards.

“Combeferre?” Flora asks, leaning around and seeing him around the door. “Come in dear, it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” he says, walking quietly into the room. “Monsieur Fauchelevent only asked me to wake Enjolras and get him ready for the journey.”

“I know,” she tells him, patting the chair next to her. “Sit for a moment.”

He does, his eyes flitting to his sleeping friend who looks remotely peaceful in slumber for the first time since they escaped the barricade, and Combeferre hates to wake him.

“I heard you won’t be traveling with us,” he says, folding his hands and looking back up at her.

“This journey is complex enough without two more bodies to add,” she replies. “But I will be there to visit as soon as I can finish up my business here in Paris; our family home is but a day’s carriage ride from the countryside outside Avignon. And I will visit yours and Courfeyrac’s parents on my way home.”

“I do appreciate that,” Combeferre tells her. “And Courfeyrac as well. We had Toussiant send them letters letting them know we were alive, but we couldn’t give them any details at all, in case the letters got seized. Couldn’t even include our names; we just have to hope they understood the message.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” she begins slowly. “Are your parents accepting of your politics, of your decisions? It’s only so I know what sort of atmosphere I might enter and behave accordingly.”

“My parents are accepting but not so much encouraging,” he tells her. “They don’t…understand me very well at all, always thought me strange, but they do love me. Courfeyrac’s parents are much like, well your situation, really. Courfeyrac does speak to his father occasionally, though, unlike Enjolras, although his mother is a good deal meeker than you, if I may say so, Madame. Doesn’t quite have the same courage. Courfeyrac is the black sheep of that family, I believe. In the best of ways.”

She half smiles at his words, squeezing his hand for a moment, looking at him fondly before her face grows tense again.

“I know this is an unpredictable situation,” she says, eyes moving again to her son. “But I want you boys to stay together. There’s safety in that, security. You need each other.”

“Yes,” Combeferre agrees, remembering Enjolras’ plea to protect the others if he’s arrested, remembers the sleepless night that followed, because of course he wants to protect all of them, and that includes Enjolras himself. He only hopes he won’t have to make the choice between keeping his promise to Enjolras and keeping him safe. Enjolras is self-sacrificing almost to a fault sometimes and he’s told his friend as much, only to have Enjolras shoot the same words calmly back at him. Enjolras certainly isn’t foolish; it’s only that his natural reactions are for others rather than for himself, initially.

 “Yes,” he continues, meeting Flora’s gaze. “We do need each other. We always have, but now especially.”

 _Protect_ _him_ , he knows she wants to say, but they both also know that Enjolras, while always interested in expanding his mind, always interested in other people’s opinions on important matters, will do as he sees fit in this situation because it’s about protecting his friends.

“We will do everything in our power to keep each other safe,” he finally says, because those are the only truthful words of comfort he can offer her.

“I know,” she says sincerely, her voice almost vibrating with anticipated grief. She runs a hand through Enjolras’ blond curls, placing a reverent kiss on his forehead.

“Rene,” she says softly. “You’ve got to wake up now, alright? Combeferre has to get you ready for the journey.”

Enjolras’ eyes pop open in an instant as though his unconscious mind was ready for those very words. He pushes up against the pillows, and Combeferre doesn’t miss the half-concealed gasp of pain.

“Journey?” he asks, looking from his mother to Combeferre. “What’s happened?”

“The neighbors reported M. Fauchelevent on suspicion of housing insurgents,” Combeferre says. “And we’ve got to get out of Paris tonight.”

“Tonight,” Enjolras repeats, processing the information as the sleep drifts away. “It’s been reported to Javert?”

“It will be in the morning,” Combeferre replies. “The officers said they’d send for him as soon as he got in, so we need to vacate this place as soon as we’re able.”

Enjolras nods, sensing the tension in Combeferre’s demeanor. He turns to his mother, a question in his eyes.

“I get the feeling you aren’t coming with us?” he asks, reaching for her hand.

“It would be two more people to transport,” she tells him, taking the hand he offers and holding it to her heart. “And this is a complicated journey as it is. M. Fauchelevent told me that he’s gone for stagecoaches and to speak to M. Gillenormand about using his drivers so that there won’t be any questions, you’ll have to find inns for lodging...” she trails off for a moment, then gets back to the point at hand. “But I’ll come visit you as soon as possible.”

“But do not put yourself in danger on my behalf,” Enjolras says seriously, the lines in his forehead creasing.

“I will put myself in as much danger as I like on behalf on my child,” she says firmly in response.

Enjolras raises his eyebrows and looks back at Combeferre, clearly looking for an ally.

“What she said,” Combeferre responds, raising his hands playfully in defeat, feeling almost privileged to be a part of this private moment between mother and son. “I know better than to argue with a mother. Especially your mother, Enjolras.”

Both smile at his words, but the amusement lasts only for a moment, the danger of the situation grabbing them by their collars and pulling them back into the present. Combeferre watches as Flora pulls Enjolras into a fierce embrace, tenderly avoiding his injured shoulder. She doesn’t speak and neither does Enjolras, because there simply aren’t any words. Combeferre watches Enjolras’ face and even though his friend’s eyes are closed, Combeferre sees the pain there, sees how much he hates causing his mother this intense distress.

But the cause he fights for is such an intrinsic part of his person, and Combeferre is certain Flora knows that, knows she’s proud of her son, even if watching him suffer, watching him risk his life, tears her apart.

Flora pulls back, resting her hands on either side of Enjolras’ face for just a moment, eyes searching his features as if trying to imprint this very moment into her mind permanently, as if she’s memorizing the features she already knows so well.

“I’ll let you do your work Combeferre,” she says, finally rising from her place. “And I’ll go downstairs to help the other boys and Toussaint pack up the necessities.”

Enjolras watches her go, eyes following her until she’s down the stairs and out of sight, before turning back to Combeferre, hands instantly moving to his injured leg.

“I think,” he says, desperately trying to control the tremor of pain of in his voice. “I think I may have tossed in my sleep and caused a little bleeding…”

“Let me see,” Combeferre says instantly, slightly annoyed that Enjolras hid this until his mother was out of the room, but also knowing his friend well enough to see he’s not capable of doing otherwise.

He tosses the covers back, finding the white bandage splotched with red, but it’s not as bad as it could have been.

“It’s bleeding but it’s not as terrible as it might have been, you just aggravated it in your sleep,” Combeferre says, sending his friend a small smile. “I’ll need to change this bandage though, and probably the one on your shoulder for good measure.”

Enjolras takes the Laudanum without protest, and Combeferre suspects it’s because his friend can sense how anxious he is, as well as how much physical distress this journey might cause him.

“Speak your mind Combeferre,” Enjolras says after a few minutes as Combeferre ties off his leg bandage. “I can tell something’s bothering you.”

“I…” Combeferre says, still surprised even after all these years of friendship just how well Enjolras reads him. “I don’t want to worry you Enjolras.”

“If our positions were switched,” Enjolras says evenly, shutting his eyes briefly against the pain while Combeferre makes quick work of his shoulder bandage. “You would find a way to make me tell you what was on my mind. I hardly have the energy to speak right now, so kindly don’t make me think of ways to coax it out of you.”

Combeferre sighs but can’t help smiling tightly at his friend; Enjolras doesn’t always speak up when he perceives things, but he does when they’re important enough to be acknowledged.

“I wish we did not have to make this journey just yet,” Combeferre admits. “I know we don’t have a choice now, because if we risk staying Javert will find you, find all of us, and he’ll drag you off to prison, and…”

Quite suddenly and without warning Combeferre finds he’s rather lost control of his voice and it cracks most audibly as he flushes with embarrassment. Flashes of Enjolras standing defiantly before a firing squad, blonde hair sticking out from under the blindfold as the bullets pierce him and rivers of blood flow down his skin, images of chains locked around his friend’s neck as he’s sent to the galleys for life, despair gleaming in his eyes, rush through Combeferre’s head like uncontrollable wildfire.

Combeferre swallows hard, desperately trying to regain control of his faculties and focusing on re-bandaging Enjolras’ wound so that their hasty retreat won’t aggravate it further. But just as his hand reaches to tie the last knot Enjolras seizes it, grasping firmly and looking him directly in the eyes with that intense, blazing gaze that so often takes others aback.

“Try not to worry, my friend,” Enjolras says, his affection clear in his tone. “Let us just…let us just focus on the present and then think of the future once we are free of Paris.”

These are strange words coming from someone who spends his life fighting for the beauty of the future, but Combeferre accepts them, squeezing Enjolras’ hand in return. He calms at the familiar touch, but uneasiness still pricks at him; there’s something in Enjolras’ voice that he doesn’t trust, something that tells him that should Javert find them, his friend will immediately throw himself into the fire to save the rest of them, to keep any of them from fighting against Javert to prevent his arrest.

Combeferre finishes tying off the bandage, but before he can express his thoughts further Grantaire arrives to help Enjolras down the stairs. Doctor Figueron left a cane for Enjolras’ use, and their injured leader leans the full weight of his good side on the cane while Grantaire wraps an arm around his waist, keeping almost all the weight off his bad leg. Enjolras is panting heavily by the time they reach the bottom, and Grantaire helps him to the nearest chair to wait for Valjean.

“I’ve got you,” Combeferre hears Grantaire say quietly. “Just hold steady.”

“I don’t care what you say, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says with the uncharacteristic air of a lecture in his voice as he darts toward them from fussing over Marius to help Grantaire settle Enjolras in the chair. “You aren’t walking to the carriage; one of us will carry you.”

“Seconded,” Grantaire adds.

For once, much to Combeferre’s astonishment, Enjolras doesn’t argue but merely nods, leaning heavily against the back of the chair and shooting a glance at Marius.

“Are you doing alright Marius?” Enjolras asks their friend, worry sparking in his blue eyes as Courfeyrac affectionately smoothes back stray strands of blonde hair from his face.

“I’ve had better nights,” Marius half jokes from his place next to Cosette, who has a tender arm wrapped around his shoulder.

Marius has told them he wants to propose as soon as he can find the right moment to ask Valjean’s permission, but amidst everything, the correct moment obviously hasn’t arisen. Marius had also joked that he’d rather wait until he’s healed so that he can get down properly on one knee without feeling like he might pass out. Life is strange, Combeferre muses, that love might be found right alongside such tragedy. He’d been nearly as frustrated and bewildered as Enjolas when Marius strode into the café proclaiming that he’d fallen in love shortly before the barricade, but now…now seeing this bit of light amongst the darkness makes joy bubble up within him.

“I…I shall be glad when we reach Avignon,” Marius continues. “The fresh air will be good for the both of us, I should think.”

Combeferre is about to agree when a flurry of activity bursts around them; Toussaint emerges with Feuilly, Flora, Gavroche, and Adrienne, each carrying at least one bag, and then Valjean strides through the front door, looking frazzled but focused, with M. Gillenormand in tow.

“We must go,” he says the moment he crosses the threshold, and for the first time Combeferre finds him almost intimidating. “We must go now. M. Gillenormand and I saw several police officers near here and I don’t want to risk anything. We have two stagecoaches outside and M. Gillenormand has been kind enough to supply us with trustworthy drivers in his employ. Come, we need to get Marius and Enjolras settled in. Quickly.”

No one argues, no one says a word, and after a few minutes the stagecoaches are loaded up, bags and all; Enjolras, Combeferre, Marius and Cosette ride in the first one, while Valjean sits with the driver; Toussaint, Grantaire, Feuilly, Gavroche, and Courfeyrac ride in the second. Combeferre watches from the window while Adrienne reaches into the second carriage and hugs Grantaire firmly, saying something he cannot hear. M. Gillenormand whispers to Marius from the other side of their carriage, promising him that as soon as he can prepare, he too, will make the journey to Avignon.

Then Combeferre hears Flora’s voice at their door, and he turns to face her; Enjolras’ head rests on Combeferre’s legs in order that he can stretch out across the seat, and Flora reaches for her son’s hand.

“Do as M. Fauchelevent tells you,” she says, not hiding the plea in her voice. “He is a good man, and he will take care of you. I love you, Rene.”

“I love you too,” Enjolras responds, and Combeferre hears the slightest waver in his voice. “Be safe yourself, please.”

“All of you be safe,” she answers, looking at each of them in turn.

With that she tears herself away, and Combeferre hears Valjean promise her once again that he’ll keep them safe. And then the door is closed, cloaking them in darkness as they ride off into the night, the six day journey to Avignon rolling out before them.

 _Goodbye, Paris_ , Combeferre thinks silently to himself. _I don’t know when I shall see you again._

LMLMLMLMLMLMLMLM

Javert receives the officers’ report from the Rue Plumet nearly the minute he walks in the door of the station at the shift change.

Or course Valjean has another home in Paris.

Of _course_.

He feels his eyes twitching, feels the blood boiling beneath his skin so hot he fears it might just melt off and pool around him on the floor. Valjean’s face flashes in front of him; first he sees the angry convict on the day of his release, hatred creased into his skin, then he sees the friendly face of Monsieur Madeline, sees him holding the dead prostitute Fantine as she dies, sees his determination and frustration and forgivness when he spared him at the barricade, sees his skin streaked with sewer filth, desperate to rescue the Pontmercy boy. He sees Cosette next, a young woman so concerned for the fate of a stranger, concerned for a man who, unbeknownst to her, has been chasing her adopted father for near on twenty years. Then Javert sees Enjolras standing at the top of the barricade, almost frightfully passionate, sees the fury in his blue eyes as he directs his lieutenants to send him into the tavern, feels his head throb with thunderous pain when Enjolras brings his own truncheon down on him while he tries to escape.

“Betrand!” he calls without warning. “Hail a fiacre and retrieve Allard and Favreau. We’re going to the Rue Plumet, there’s been a report of a…” he stops, keeping the name to himself. “…a man possibly housing Enjolras and his surviving lieutenants.”

Betrand does as requested and within twenty minutes they’ve arrived at a quaint but spacious home on what appears a quiet street.

“Allard, Favreau, go and speak to the reporting neighbors,” he barks, heart pounding with every step. He does want to set eyes on Valjean, does not want to see the man who is responsible for breaking every code he’s ever set for himself, every moral line he’s ever drawn, and yet he has to arrest Enjolras, has to obey the _law_.

 _So you were obeying the law when you let Valjean go willingly, were you?_ that nasty voice asks from the back of his head. _With another insurgent no less?_

 _I’ve been told to arrest the leader only, that arresting Enjolras and making an example of him will quell the rebellious spirit of his friends and limit more bloodshed, just as it surely did with the other leader Inspector Ancel found, so letting Pontmercy go is no matter,_ he internally shoots back. _And Valjean…Valjean…I cannot…_

He shakes his head, ridding himself of the internal monologue.

“Inspector?” he hears Betrand ask. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says calmly, not looking at his underling. “Let’s go. Try the door.”

He does, and it’s locked, of course.

“Police!” Javert half shouts, half growls. “Open this door at once!”

Nothing.

Not a damn sound.

“Police!” he calls again.

Still nothing.

He makes quick work of the door just as the other two officers make their way over, and they all follow him inside.

“They say they didn’t hear any commotion last night monsieur,” Allard says, almost looking a bit afraid of his superior. “But it looks like they’re…”

“Vanished?” Javert snaps. “Yes, it does.”

At the unnerved look all three give him, Javert realizes he’s cracking in front of them, and he will not have that under any circumstance.

No.

He has a job to do.

“Search the house,” he tells them, reverting back to his professional demeanor. “Search everywhere, look for anything. What is the name of the man who owns this house? Did they say?”

“A Monsieur Fauchelevent,” Favreau replies. “And his daughter.”

The man Valjean rescued from under the fallen cart.

Of course.

“Does that name mean anything to you monsieur?” Betrand asks.

“No,” Javert lies, hating himself for it instantly. “I’ve never heard it before.”

Valjean’s took that name as his own when Madeline would no longer work after the debacle in Arras, and Javert wonders just how many names the man’s taken in his time on the run. He hears Allard and Favreau moving around upstairs, hears Bertrand searching the kitchen and the dining area, so Javert takes it upon himself to search the parlor; the house looks lived, a contrast from the sparseness of the other residence. Valjean is careful, but it’s obvious they left in a hurry because they weren’t given any other choice; blankets hang over the backs of chairs, five recently used candles rest on the mantle, and a roll of emerald green ribbon rests on the table, no doubt belonging to Cosette.

“There’s no sign of anyone Inspector,” Allard says, striding back into the room. “They’ve really are gone.”

“We will place someone on watch here for a few nights in case they decide to return here,” Javert says, even though he knows they will not; Valjean is too prudent and too paranoid, Enjolras’ face is plastered across Paris, and Javert knows that some of the lieutenants are on watch lists. No, Paris is far too dangerous now.

Javert places Allard on watch nonetheless, and heads back to the station with Bertrand and Favreau. Prefect Gerard is not yet in to report to, so Javert enters his office once more, locking the door behind him. The wanted poster of Enjolras mocks him from its place on his desk, and Javert feels rage build to such an uncontrollable point that he seizes the paper and rips it in half, rips it into dozens of tiny slips of paper and throws them at the opposite wall.

He _just_ missed them.

He breathes heavily, the warmth of the June day seeping in through the window and choking him with sweaty hands. Damn Valjean, damn him, that hellish angel of mercy who has ruined everything and yet whom he cannot punish.

He stares at the bagged red jacket sitting in the corner chair, dark with dried blood.

But he can punish that wretched boy, that boy who thinks fighting for the poor will make them any different, who seeks to change the very governance of their nation. But Javert knows better, Javert knows that only one’s own determination can pull oneself up from the gutter; his mother was a gypsy and his father was a thief, and yet Javert did not ask for anyone’s help, did ask to change the face of France to some sort of fictional, glorious republic where all citizens are free. Such idealism, such freedom, is a dangerous notion…

Enjolras’ face morphs into Valjean’s and back again, one set of eyes drenched with mercy but wet with sadness, the second on fire with all the injustice and suffering of a nation.

 He shakes his head again, pounding his clenched fist onto his desk, ignoring how much it throbs.

He doesn’t know how.

He doesn’t know when.

But he will find where Valjean is hiding that schoolboy, and then his world will be set right again.


	16. A Journey

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

Chapter 16: A Journey

Later, Enjolras will tell his friends that he doesn’t remember very much about their six day journey to Avignon, doesn’t remember very much other than brief flashes of conversation, the stage coaches traveling as rapidly as possible, flying away from Paris, from the inspector and the government who hunt them, sensations of stabbing pain when the coach jolts, bleary images of nights spent in small inn rooms and Valjean’s anxious, worried whispers.

He wakes up in one such inn on the final night of their journey from a dream he can’t piece together, opening his eyes and seeing Courfeyrac’s slightly worried smile greeting him.

“Hello there,” Courfeyrac says, helping him sit up and almost absentmindedly smoothing back Enjolras’ golden curls from his face.

“Where are we?” Enjolras asks, taking the glass of water Courfeyrac hands him; it was a great deal safer, he knew, to drink water in the countryside rather than in Paris, where it was so often polluted.

“We are roughly thirty kilometers outside Avignon,” Courfeyrac tells him. “In a small village called Pernes-les-Fontaines. M. Gillenormand’s home is about two kilometers outside the city proper, according to Marius, so we will be there sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

Enjolras nods, gazing at the room around him. Marius sleeps soundly on his back in the bed on his left, auburn hair sweeping across his forehead, freckles more distinct against his paler-than-usual skin. Combeferre sleeps in the bed to his right, dark brown hair sticking up everywhere, his form splayed out to the left side because Courfeyrac, Enjolras assumes, had previously been asleep next to him. Grantaire and Feuilly share the last bed, Feuilly with one knee pressed against his chest, Grantaire flat on his stomach, his near-black curls a wild tangle, Gavroche curled up in a ball at the footboard.

“Valjean and Cosette are in the room next door,” Courfeyrac tells him, watching Enjolras intently. “Though I suspect Valjean is one of those men who gets by on very little sleep. Rather like you,” he teases lightly.

“And just what are you doing awake, exactly?” Enjolras shoots back, raising a single eyebrow.

“Couldn’t sleep all that well,” Courfeyrac answers, glancing at his vacated spot in the bed.

Courfeyrac offers up his usual grin, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes the way it normally does, doesn’t prick the green irises with little balls of light in the way to which Enjolras is accustomed.

“Are you worried about something?” Enjolras asks, searching Courfeyrac’s face for signs of something he can’t quite name.

“Me?” Courfeyrac says, laughing, and again it sounds abnormal, less animated. “I don’t worry, Enjolras, that’s Combeferre’s particular talent, I…”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras interrupts, the soft whisper of an order in his voice.

“What?” Courfeyrac asks, still holding on to that façade of a smile.

“I have known you for a significant handful of years now,” Enjolras continues. “I have known you since my first months in Paris when we were eighteen; we are now both around twenty-five, and if you think I cannot note a difference in the way you smile, the way you laugh, both of which are so inherent to your personality, then you are mistaken.”

“You grow more perceptive by the year,” Courfeyrac observes, the smile reaching his eyes now, if only for a moment. “That, and you spend far too much time with Combeferre.”

“I still don’t hear you telling me what’s the matter,” Enjolras says, but he’s gentle. “Normally I would try not to press, but under the circumstances…”

“I just had a dream,” Courfeyrac says, cutting off Enjolras’ stream of words. “A nightmare, I suppose. I’m not prone to them, so I admit: it shook me up a bit. So I decided to pass the time and sit with you.”

Something like relief floods through Enjolras, mixed with a very powerful sense of empathy. He’s been struggling with nightmares since Valjean rescued them from the barricade, and he holds onto the pleasant dream he had in Paris like a lifeline, imprinting the images of his deceased friends’ faces on his brain, their smiles and their affection rather than the nightmarish specters he’s seen so many times.

“I’m so sorry Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, pressing his friend’s always warm hand and holding tight.

Courfeyrac squeezes his hand in return, eyes falling briefly to the floor before looking back up again. “I was at the barricade again, but I…I was alone there. I searched everywhere for all of you and couldn’t find you, not until I saw your…your bodies in the café, all lined up together, and the National Guard, they wouldn’t shoot me. They said being without my friends was enough punishment…” he trails off, and Enjolras feels his heart tremble at seeing the tears in Courfeyrac’s eyes, in eyes that so often are dancing waltzes with mirth and with passion.

Pain sweeps through his body, but Enjolras moves over in the rather roomy inn bed, making room for Courfeyrac.

“No,” Courfeyrac says. “You’re injured, Enjolras, don’t be silly, I could move the wrong way and hurt you. I’m fine sharing with Combeferre, these beds are large.”

“If you do I’ll let you know,” Enjolras says simply.

Courfeyrac smiles slightly again and obliges, sliding into the bed beside Enjolras; Courfeyrac’s always been tactile, has always been comforted by touch, something Enjolras knows well, and so hopes his presence will help his friend fall back asleep without falling victim to another nightmare. Courfeyrac’s head rests lightly on Enjolras’ good shoulder, the mop of fashionably cut brown curls brushing his cheek, and Courfeyrac releases a sigh, his posture visibly relaxing.

“I miss them so much,” Courfeyrac says quietly. “I miss endless games of dominoes with Bahorel and his rumbling laugh, I miss Bossuet’s quips and his cheerfulness, I miss Jehan enthusiastically telling me about a new poem he’d written, the way he blushed when he was shy, I miss Joly’s incessant worrying over catching some disease and then laughing when he realized how ridiculous he was being. Sometimes in all the insanity, all the hectic rushing about and keeping safe from the police I can put it to the back of my mind out of necessity so I can focus, but when the quiet comes, when sleep comes, I find I cannot. Sometimes it seems like it’s been a long time, but then it comes back with a crashing realization that it’s only been two weeks. That they won’t walk through the door.”

“I know,” Enjolras agrees. “I often feel that way. I wish I could say something to make your pain, to make all of our pain, dim, but I know there is nothing that can do such a thing. Only time will do that, but we will miss them forever. That isn’t something that will ever leave us.”

“No,” Courfeyrac replies. “But delaying our grief looking for ways to dim it will only make it worse in the long run, and we don’t need to add more problems to our stockpile. We have to feel what we feel properly, or as properly as anything like this can be, I suppose.”

“Grief isn’t a simplistic process,” Enjolras answers, the warmth radiating off Courfeyrac’s body making him drowsy once more. “And we…we are missing pieces of ourselves, pieces we cannot replace. Even Combeferre would tell us that there is not a book to help solve this particular problem.”

Courfeyrac goes silent for a few moments, his eyes falling closed, and Enjolras believes he’s fallen asleep until his voice fills the air once more.

“What was that you said the barricade?” Courfeyrac muses. “ ‘ _Friends, the present hour in which I am addressing you, is a gloomy hour; but these are the terrible purchases of the future. A revolution is a toll… This agony and this immortality are about to join and constitute our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn_ ’.”

“You have a good memory,” Enjolras says, surprised Courfeyrac remembers so well.

“It was one of your better speeches,” Courfeyrac says, the breath of a chuckle in his tone.

“So you’re saying you don’t usually like them?” Enjolras asks, unable to stop a small laugh from escaping, because Courfeyrac can always make him see humor, can always diffuse a tense situation with a joke or a pun, just understand people and how they work so incredibly well.

“Of course not, you’re nearly poetic with your words. You’re just a bit long-winded, sometimes, a bit lofty for us mere mortals,” he says, that familiar glint of glee in his eyes again. He stops, growing serious. “But those words… _’a tomb all flooded with the dawn’_ …it helps me remember that our friends died _for_ something, that someday their sacrifices will lead to the new world we all dreamt of together. That does comfort me, somewhat, in the worst moments. That, and having the rest of you still here with me.”

“I will not let their sacrifices be in vain,” Enjolras says, a fierce intensity in his tone. “None of us will allow it; I know I cannot.”

“And none of us will allow anything to happen to you,” Courfeyrac adds, his voice growing heavier with exhaustion. “You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers, eyes flitting over to Combeferre, whose eyes are still closed, but Enjolras can tell by his posture that he’s awoken; he’s seen his friend fall asleep with his books enough times to know the difference. Their conversation of a few days ago rings in his mind.

_If something happens to me, I need you to protect the others. I didn’t want to ask you. I didn’t want to burden you, but it is five lives versus one. There is no need for all of you…_

_I will protect the others, I promise you. But if you think that means I will not also attempt to protect you, then you are mistaken._

“Inspector Javert will not get his hands on you,” Courfeyrac says, his eyes fluttering closed, but he still keeps speaking, a marked fervor in his voice. “Because we are in this together; it’s all of us or none of us. So no plans to hand yourself over or anything of that nature if he finds us, alright?”

Courfeyrac’s words strike Enjolras directly in the chest like a physical blow; Courfeyrac knows him so well. Flashes of Javert bursting through the door, the others standing up against him, Javert handcuffing them and dragging them off, broken, defeated, and hopeless, sear his mind.

He _cannot_ let that happen. He will offer himself up to prevent it, if Javert finds them, will go to prison; he does not wish to die, of course, because few human beings do, but he will sacrifice himself if necessary.

Even if he cannot live to continue on with their cause, he will give his remaining friends their chance to fight on, to keep that spark they all lit together burning, to see that future all flooded with light that he believes in, that he fights for with every fiber of his soul, that future of freedom, that future of children dancing happily in the streets rather than begging for food or dying of Cholera because they cannot afford medication, that future where women do not have to throw themselves into prostitution because they have no other choice, that future where the people, rather than a monarch, have the say in how they are governed.

He doesn’t know how to respond to his friend, but turns to find he’s been relieved of that task; Courfeyrac is already asleep. He brushes a hand against his friend’s cheek, smiling ever so slightly at Courfeyrac’s peaceful expression.

But Enjolras still feels a bit like he’s lied and he’s never been dishonest with his friends.

And he hates it, because he loves his friends far too much to be easy with keeping something from them.

He’s never doubted who he is, has never doubted what’s important to him and never will, but doing something so uncharacteristic feels like a betrayal to himself, like a betrayal against his own intrinsic nature. He’d known that if he survived the barricade his life would change forever, but even with all of their planning, with all of their preparation and maturity… it still couldn’t have been possible for them to predict this particular circumstance. He knows it will hurt all of them irrevocably if something happens to him, and that’s the last thing he wants, but he also knows he’d rather them live with that hurt than be arrested or killed. He closes his eyes briefly, silently praying that Javert will simply lose their trail and they will figure out how to live their lives anew, even if that means changing their names, changing locations every once in a while.

A swell of unchecked emotion rushes through him, hot and unyielding. He glances over, meeting Combeferre’s now open eyes, which gleam with worry and bright compassion.

 _We will figure this out_ , his friend’s glance seems to say. _Maintain that eternal hope that is such an integral part of you._

Enjolras smiles silently at Combeferre and Combeferre returns the smile.

Then they both fall back into slumber, joining their friends in the world of dreams.

* * *

 

They reach Avignon safely and without incident the next afternoon, and Madame Bellard, the housekeeper, greets them jovially, moving to hug Marius rather enthusiastically; he’d told them he spent summers in this house as a child. Enjolras can tell Valjean’s spirits have lifted just in the way he holds himself, in the reduction of the bags under his eyes the next morning after he’d had what is clearly the first full night’s sleep in their entire journey, perhaps ever since the night of the barricade.

The next afternoon, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Grantaire sit with Enjolras; Gavroche has dragged Cosette off to the grounds in search of the cat Madame Bellard told him about, and Valjean has traveled to Avignon with Toussaint to pick up some necessities, and, Enjolras suspects, to get a feeling for the atmosphere. The chateau is expansive, large enough for all of them to have their own sleeping quarters, and it feels hidden enough that Enjolras feels almost tucked away from the world, though Avignon is only two kilometers down the road.

“Marius seems both comfortable and uncomfortable here at the same time,” Feuilly remarks, still slightly in awe of the home’s size, his eyes constantly catching on something new. “Almost as if he’s…I want to say ashamed?”

“The home is familiar to him,” Combeferre muses. “And that’s comforting, but he also was estranged from his grandfather over politics yes, but politics that stem from the privilege of the bourgeoisie, and this house is a reminder of that.”

“And to think this house is now housing a group of Republican rebels,” Grantaire says. “Ironic.”

“We cannot help what we are born into,” Enjolras replies, thinking of his own parents, who, though not as expansively rich as the Gillenormands, are still wealthy in their own right. “Rather it matters what we do with our lives. And M. Gillenormand’s decision to embrace Marius, to embrace Marius’ friends, his immense help in protecting us…that’s something I’m thankful for. It started out of love for his grandson, but it grew into what almost seems like respect for our willingness to fight for our cause, even if he doesn’t understand the cause itself.”

There’s a slight knock on the door, and they all turn to see Marius himself standing awkwardly in the doorway, a smile tugging at his lips, Courfeyrac behind him with a rather cat-like grin on his countenance.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre chides, sliding his glasses down his nose and looking at his friend. “What did I say about dragging Marius out of bed? He needs rest. That was a very long journey for all of us, let alone our two injured parties.”

“But our dear Marius has news to share!” Courfeyrac exclaims, the enthusiasm bursting forth in a radiant grin that Enjolras is pleased to see return.

“What’s the news?” Feuilly asks, the excitement clearly contagious.

Courfeyrac looks about to elbow Marius in the ribs, thinks better of it given Marius’ abdomen injury, settling for nodding eagerly.

“I’m going to ask Valjean for his permission to propose to Cosette,” Marius says, his smile spreading slowly, almost dreamily across his face. “As soon as we are completely settled here, so in a few days time.  In light of everything, in light of our friends…” his smile falters slightly, and he halts for a moment, eyes casting down before looking back up at each of them in turn. “I’ve learned these past weeks that life is not something I can take for granted, and I just feel there is not time to waste.”

“See, Combeferre?” Courfeyrac teases merrily. “I told you I had a good reason for pulling him out of bed.”

There is a round of robust congratulations, and Enjolras senses Marius’ eyes on him while Grantaire pats the soon to be groom heartily on the back, no doubt remembering Enjolras’ frustration with him in the cafe.

_Marius, you're no longer a child. I do not doubt you mean it well. But now there is a higher call. Who cares about your lonely soul? We strive toward a larger goal…_

Enjolras doesn’t have personal knowledge of the ins and outs of romantic attachment in particular, but he very much appreciates all forms of love in a world that sorely needs more of that wonderful virtue. He’d chastised Marius then because he needed him to focus, needed them all to focus on the task at hand, to fight for the future they all so longed for, that future where there would be love for all and not just some, because that was more important than anything and the time was at hand: but also because he didn’t want Marius’ distraction putting him or anyone else in danger when it came time to fight. But now the circumstance is drastically different; the future they fought for, the future they will always fight for, was made for people’s happiness, and Marius and Cosette are clearly happy. Enjolras doesn’t know the entirety of Cosette’s story, but he senses that she was exactly the kind of child their cause embodies, the child of an absent biological father, of a struggling, desperate mother who died from terrible conditions and circumstance because there was no way out. And yet she is a truly impressive, generous young woman. His mind flashes back to the barricade, to his own words:

 _It is a poor moment to pronounce the word love. No matter, I pronounce it, and I glorify it. Love, you have a future_ … _In the future, no one shall kill another, the earth will be radiant, mankind will love. It will come, citizens, the day where everything is concord, harmony, light, joy, and life, it will come._

“Congratulations my friend,” Enjolras says, clasping Marius’ shoulder. “I am pleased for you. And for Cosette.”

Marius smiles wider, returning Enjolras’ gesture.

“How are you going to get down on one knee with that injury, Marius?” Feuilly asks.

“He’s not,” Combeferre answers. “There are other ways, I’m certain, to propose.”

This comment starts a debate on the various ways a man might propose, until Grantaire breaks it up with a loud proclamation.

“So!” he says, a smirkish grin on his face. “Drinks all around then? To Marius being in love at last?”

And at that, even Enjolras has to laugh.


	17. Of Trails and Bonding

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde     

Men of Mercy

A/N: A note here about the mixed-verse I’m working with: I know in the Brick Madame Hucheloup is the proprietor of the Corinth, which is also where they set up the barricade, but as I set the barricade at the Musain here (as in the musical/film), and as the film had who I assumed was meant to be a version of Madame Hucheloup at the Musain, I am using that idea here. Also, my mention of the two revolutionaries in this chapter are actual historical names from the actual June Rebellion, hurray for historical context! I hope that’s not confusing and I hope you enjoy!

 Chapter 17:  Of Trails and Bonding

Javert finds himself walking the significant distance from the station and toward the Café Musain; the officers are abuzz while awaiting news of the trial of rebel leader Charles Jeanne, and Javert was so nettled he simply seized his jacket and walked out without a word. Inspector Ancel, who found Jeanne, has been hailed as a hero amongst their fellow officers, and Javert tires of watching the man swagger around and shoot condescending looks in his direction.

“Still haven’t found Enjolras then, Javert?” he’d asked not half an hour ago.

“I haven’t happened to accidentally stumble across him, no,” Javert answered, keeping his irritation in check. “Though I’ll be absolutely sure to let you know if I do.”

“From what I’ve heard tell you’ve missed him twice now,” Ancel continued, palms flat on Javert’s desk. “Shame.”

“Unless you’ve got anything to add to my case, Ancel,” Javert snapped, never lifting his eyes from the papers in front him. “Then do leave my office.”

With Jeanne’s trial ongoing, and the trial of another rebel, Michael Geoffroy, on the horizon, Javert feels the pressure to find Enjolras growing more with each passing day. He stalks down the cobblestone streets, the thump of his boots hitting the ground echoing in his ears. Before he quite realizes it, he’s arrived at the site of the barricade, the near-ruined café standing in front of him.

But something’s changed since he was last here; yes, the blood has been cleaned from the stones and the café is still surrounded by bullet splintered wood, but now there are also drawings tacked to the front wall of the establishment, a French flag hanging in the window, tattered but still flying. Javert steps closer to one of the amateur drawings, eyes widening when he sees it’s a sketch that strikingly resembles several of the boys he remembers seeing that night, proudly holding up a red flag.

This is a tribute to these boys, to these students and workers from the people of Saint-Michel, from the residents of this particular slum of Paris. He wonders if there are similar tributes where the Saint-Merry barricade fell, where any of them fell.

So _now_ the people of Paris rise. He cannot help but wonder why they did not rise during the insurrection when they have done so countless times in the past, wonders what was different this time around when there is so much unrest in the streets.

“I come here and find more of those every day,” a female voice says from behind. “I suppose you’ll want to arrest me for keeping them up there, monsieur, because I’m guessing art is now illegal also?”

Javert spins around to see who he assumes is the owner of the café standing by the door, a kerchief tied around her head and an apron around her waist, a frown set into her features.

“Are you the owner of the Café Musain?” Javert asks abruptly. “A Madame Hucheloup?”

“Who are you to ask?” she demands, not giving him an inch.

“Inspector Javert of the Paris Police,” Javert bites back, his voice almost a snarl. “And I’m searching for Rene Enjolras, the leader of the group of rebels who set up the barricade in front of your café. Do you know him?”

“Lots of people come into my café monsieur,” she says. “Or at least they did before I had to close down to fix it back up again. I can’t be responsible for knowing all of their names.”

“Do not lie to me,” Javert warns, stepping closer, feeling that all too familiar rage and confusion of the past two weeks bubbling so close beneath the surface and threatening to spew forth. “Those boys set up the barricade here for a reason; I suspect this is one of the places where they held their illicit meetings.”

“I can’t police what people get up to in the upstairs room of my café,” Madame Hucheloup evades again, but her voice softens ever so slightly. “What would it matter if I did know him? Knew any of them? All those boys are dead.”

“No,” Javert answers. “Enjolras was missing from the bodies. Likely along with some of his lieutenants.”

She tries to hold back her relief, but she’s an aging woman and her expression gives her away immediately, the way her eyes grow less dull, the way her lips turn ever so slightly upward.

“Have they contacted you?” Javert persists, and he feels himself losing control, feels himself losing his professional calm. “Did you help them escape?”

“No, Inspector Javert,” she says, but she’s staring him down with defiance in her eyes. “I only wish I could say I did.”

“I could charge you with assisting traitors with words such as those,” he says, leaning in close to her face.

“For what?” she asks him, her tone calm, but there is a flicker of fear in her eyes. “For saying I _wished_ I could have helped them?”

Javert is very near to pulling out his handcuffs when a younger man steps out, eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment and concern.

“Maman what’s going on?” he asks, coming and standing firmly by her side.

“Inspector Javert wants to know if we helped any rebels who built the barricade here escape,” she says, but her gaze never leaves Javert’s face.

“We don’t know anything about any escapees,” the young man says, clearly desperate to keep his spitfire of a mother out of trouble with the law. “Please, we’re trying to rebuild this café and get back to business before we lose any more money. We have to eat too, inspector.”

Javert glances at the young man, then back at the woman in front of him, whose glare is unceasing.

“This is your warning,” he says to her, turning sharply on his heel. “If I hear one word, one whisper about you helping Enjolras escape, I shall return.”

With that he strides away, leaving the ghosts of the barricade, leaving the drawings and the flag and the echoing laughter of passionate young men struck down upon these stones for their ideals, behind him.

He swears he can almost hear wine glasses clinking against each other, can hear fervent shouts of “Vive la France!” and “Vive la Republique!” reaching his ears and burning his brain. He shakes his head, willing the spectral voices away

_You don’t fear never finding Enjolras and his lieutenants_ , the silky, poisonous voice of his own inner demons whispers. _What you fear is once again chasing a man who has done wrong in the eyes of the law, but who has done right by mankind._

“No,” Javert says resolutely to himself. “No.”

Valjean was a _convict_. A _thief._ A _liar._

_And a saint._

Enjolras was a _traitor_. A _rabble-rouser._ A _rebel._

_And a solider fighting for a better world._

But there is _not_ a better world, Javert tells himself. And this boy and those who fight alongside him only cause further unrest in a city, in a country, rampant with it. There must be _order_ and _law_ and _rules_.

Never revolution, because Javert’s seen very well in his lifetime the chaos that revolution has wrought upon France’ he grew up amongst the bloody days of the French Revolution, saw Napoleon rise and fall, saw the return of the monarchy with Charles X, then saw him overthrown as a consequence of the 1830 revolt, saw Louis-Phillipe then seize the throne.

Valjean and his damned _mercy_ and his _existence_ have already sent Javert’s very foundation spinning, crumbling, breaking, has injected his life with irreversible shades of grey…but these rebels threaten the very functioning of the physical country around him.

_Freedom_.

_Republic_.

_Equality._

It’s lies, all of it.

He remembers Valjean’s filth covered face, remembers recognizing the Pontmercy boy resting heavily upon the ex-convict’s shoulders, an idea sparking in his mind upon arrival at the station.

“Bertrand!” he calls spotting the younger officer loitering outside his office, the Republican watch lists Javert requested earlier in his hands, one for students, one for workers.

“Yes Inspector?” Bertrand asks. “Did you find out anything at the Musain?”

“No, unfortunately,” Javert says, pulling out keys to unlock his door. “But I’ve had an idea. One of the rebels…Pontmercy is the name. I need you to find records of who his relations are so we can question them, then find property records of said relations, and bring them to me. This Fauchelevent, he might have worked with one of Pontmercy’s relations and found a safe-house outside of Paris.”

“Yes monsieur,” Bertrand says, with a nod of his head, hesitating a little before going.

“What is it?” Javert asks, trying to maintain his patience, patience that wanes with every moment.

“How do you know this Pontmercy boy is still alive, monsieur?” Bertrand asks.

“I don’t,” Javert lies, looking his underling right in the eyes as he does, that familiar sensation of self-loathing burning like acid up his throat.

He doesn’t even know who he _is_ anymore, only what he must _do_.

“I remembered his name and face from a previous encounter when I saw him at the barricade,” Javert continues, thinking of the Thenardier fiasco at the Gorbeau House. “And it’s the only name I can remember, at present, and so therefore the only relations we can question, until I pursue these lists you’ve brought me. Enjolras will not have been foolish enough to go home to his own family, although if it comes to it we will check that also. Now go, and quickly.”

Betrand goes with a nod, and Javert returns to his desk, heart pounding beneath his skin.

This could be it: this could be the trail he needs to follow.

But he sits down with the watch lists nevertheless, perusing them for names he might remember from the barricade; he might not know all their names, but their faces, their voices, are so very fresh in his mind. The voice of the well-known gamin, Gavroche, rings in his head:

_Good evening dear inspector, lovely evening my dear. I know this man my friends his name’s Inspector Javert. So don’t believe a word he says ‘cause none of it’s true…_

Javert tries pushing the image out the boy out of his head, because it only reminds him of himself, only reminds him that he too, was once not much more than another gamin on the streets, because sometimes staying on the street was better than spending an inordinate amount of time with his fraud of a fortune-telling mother or his convict, galley-slave father. But the voices of Gavroche’s revolutionary mentors only grow louder, joining in:

_Bravo little Gavroche, you’re the top of the class!_

_So what are we gonna do with this snake in the grass?_

_Take this man and throw him in the tavern in there, the people will decide your fate, Inspector Javert!_

_Take the bastard now and shoot him!_

_Let us watch the devil dance!_

_You’d have done the same inspector, if we’d let you have your chance!_

_Though we may not all survive here, there are things that never die!_

Things that never die…

Javert leans closer to the papers and ignores the voices of Gavroche, of Enjolras and his lieutenants, of Valjean, of his own inner demons, but Valjean and Enjolras’ faces meld together once again in his mind until he cannot decipher one from the other.

* * *

 

Three days after their arrival, another journey into Avignon becomes necessary: Cosette joked with her father that he was only used to sending Toussaint to procure food for three, not ten. In order to carry as much as possible and load it into the carriage, Valjean takes Toussaint, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and Combeferre with him, leaving Madame Bellard to watch the house. Cosette elects to stay behind with Marius, and she doesn’t miss Combeferre whispering in Feuilly’s ear to please watch Enjolras, who grows antsier by the day, tired of being confined to bed. Gavroche stays behind as well, choosing to pass the time sitting with Feuilly and Enjolras.

Marius, worn out from the long journey because of his injuries, falls asleep mere minutes after Cosette starts reading verses of Wordsworth’s  “Lyrical Ballads” to him, lids fluttering closed slowly, grey-green eyes hidden from view. She rises from her chair, brushing the pad of her thumb lightly over the spattering of freckles running across his nose, kissing his forehead before leaving and closing the door as quietly as possible behind her.

Marius’ entrance into her life has opened up doors she hardly ever considered; she’s in love, she potentially has someone other than her beloved papa to share her life with, and despite the tragic, terrifying circumstances, she suddenly has a gaggle of what are quickly beginning to feel like older brothers, and a younger one in Gavroche. Aside from her father, Toussaint, and some of her friends from her school days in the convent, she’s always been alone.

And now she has this strange, mixed-up family; Courfeyrac and Grantaire, who already feel comfortable teasing her as they might a sister; Combeferre, who always seems ready to offer her a book suggestion when she asks; Feuilly, who has already promised to help her improve her painting and drawing skills (he’s roped Grantaire in too, swearing he’s going to get him back into art); Gavroche, who ever re-awakens the child in her, always ready for an adventure. She remembers him as a baby when she lived with the Thenardiers, always crying for a mother who never cared for him. And there’s Marius, whose very presence warms her all the way to to the tips of her fingers and toes, whose smile makes her heart beat faster than she knew possible, Marius, who held her tightly despite his own physical pain while she cried after learning the heartbreaking fate of her mother, and in return she embraced him when he grieved over his friends. If only she’d know that day she laid eyes on him in the Luxembourg Gardens, what it would all eventually mean.

And then there’s Enjolras, who is always kind to her, who always looks at her as if he’d like to get to know her better, but he’s been so ill that he’s been asleep most of the time he’s been with them, so she hasn’t gotten to talk to him as much as she’d like. Intensity and passion practically radiate off his person, almost creating a barrier around him that seems difficult to penetrate. But the other boys love him fiercely; she’s seen how they worry, how they fret, how they hate leaving his side.

And now…

Now she feels an almost inexplicable need to tell him about her childhood, about her mother, because the cause he fought for, the cause all of them fought for…it was a cause for children like her.

And as she’s learned, the quickest way to Enjolras’ heart is showing an appreciation for his cause, showing a belief in something, perhaps even just in someone, showing hope.

And she believes in their cause.

She makes her way down the hall, stopping outside the door when she hears Enjolras and Feuilly’s voices floating toward her, making sure she isn’t interrupting a private conversation.

“I don’t suppose you’d let me let me slip out of bed and at least go downstairs for a bit, would you Feuilly?” Enjolras asks, sounding almost like a child.

Cosette can practically see Feuilly’s indulgent grin spreading across his face.

“I’m the second worst person after Combeferre to ask,” Feuilly says, a small laugh in his tone. “He told me under no circumstance was I to let you out of this bed. That journey added a bit of time onto your bed-ridden sentence, I’m afraid.”

“If it were me,” Gavroche says, and through the crack in the door, Cosette can see him standing up, puffing up his chest and crossing his arms. “You would say ‘Gavroche! Get back in that bed this instant or you don’t get a rifle for the next barricade!’”

Enjolras narrows his eyes, but there is a very clear glint of amused affection within them.

“You think you’re witty then?” Enjolras asks.

“I know I am,” Gavroche says proudly. “Bahorel said so himself. Bossuet too, and he was the king of puns.”

At this Enjolras smiles, but it’s a smile tinged with melancholy, matching the expression on Feuilly’s face.

Cosette knocks, pushing the door all the way open.

“Ah, Cosette, you’ve come to help me keep this stubborn man in bed then?” Feuilly asks, tilting his slightly too large cap back on his head, and she makes a note to ask her father to pick him up a new one when he can, and then leave it in Feuilly’s room, knowing he probably won’t take it directly; he’s been shy enough about accepting the new clothes purchased for all the boys, used to buying things on his own dime alone, though she senses his friends have forcibly bought him dinner more than once.

“Well someone has to,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice as she looks at Enjolras, who looks back. “I’ve heard tell this one’s pretty swift and rather well-equipped at one-on-one combat.”

Enjolras’ mouth drops open in surprise at the perceived implication he would fight Feuilly in order to get out of bed.

“I would never…” he pauses. “You are teasing me.”

“Yes,” Cosette says, laughing now. “I know you would never lay a hand on any of your friends, no matter what a stubborn patient you are. Though I don’t know that I’d like to be an enemy who threatened someone you cared about.”

“You wouldn’t,” Feuilly says firmly, putting a hand on Enjolras’ good shoulder.

“I don’t know how much use I’d be in this state,” Enjolras adds. “But our friend Bahorel, he said to me years ago ‘Enjolras, you can’t get started in this revolution business and get up to the things we do running from gendarmes and such not knowing how to defend yourself.’ So he started teaching me. That’s how I met Grantaire initially, actually. He was friends with Bahorel, who brought him along to one of our lessons since Grantaire knows boxing well. ”

“Enjolras,” Feuilly remarks. “Do you remember that time last year when I had a head cold and drug myself to the meeting after a long day at work and you insisted that I go home and rest? And under no circumstance was I to go home and read, but go straight to bed? That me prolonging resting would only prolong my illness? That if I needed to take a day off work you would make up my wages no matter my argument?”

“I…” Enjolras says, clearly searching for an argument. “Yes. But…”

“Are you not human like the rest of us?” Feuilly continues, voice softening.

“I…decidedly so, yes,” Enjolras concedes.

“It seems you’ve won the argument, Feuilly,” Cosette says, watching Gavroche shake with laughter.

“He has a knack for real world wisdom,” Enjolras, replies, fondness and respect in his eyes when he looks at his friend.

Enjolras shifts his arm and suddenly gasps audibly.

“What’s the matter?” Cosette asks, moving towards him instantly.

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just a bit of pain…”

“Nonsense,” Cosette says. “May I see, please?”

He nods his consent, and Cosette gingerly pulls down the shoulder of his nightshirt, seeing a few splotches of fresh blood dotting the white bandage.

“There’s some residual bleeding,” Cosette says. “I should change the bandage, Combeferre showed me how, with Marius…”

“I’m sure it can wait until Combeferre returns,” Enjolras argues.

“No it can’t,” Cosette says, stern. She looks kindly back at Feuilly and Gavroche, both of whom look concerned. “Would the two of you mind helping Madame Bellard in the garden for a few minutes while I change his bandage? From out the window it looked like she was having some trouble tussling with some things.”

“Of course,” Feuilly replies. “Come on Gav, let’s see what we can do.” He ruffles Gavroche’s hair, but Cosette doesn’t miss the little boy’s worried glance back at Enjolras, who nods at him with a small, reassuring smile.

Cosette pulls out the extra bandages and the ointment Combeferre left in the bedside drawer, helping Enjolras pull his shirt off.

“You really don’t have to do this Cosette,” he tries once more.

“Of course I do,” she says. “We’re friends aren’t we? I’m not just going to sit here and allow you to bleed.”

“Friends,” Enjolras says, meeting her eyes again. “Yes. Yes we are friends.”

She dabs the ointment on the healing wound, and he bites his lip against the sting, trying to stifle the hiss of pain escaping him and Cosette almost imperceptibly shakes her head.

“I know you feel rather purposeless at the moment, bedridden like this,” she tells him. “But you will be well again, and then I have no doubt that you will find a way to get back to your cause, with or without the threat of Inspector Javert being on our trail.”

“It’s a part of me,” Enjolras says in reply. “It’s a part of who we all are. It’s the breath in me, truthfully, so I will always find a way back to it. But I would like to keep my remaining friends safe from Javert, if at all possible.”

Cosette nods, mulling over her thoughts and thinking of the mother of whom she only remembers dream-like visions, flowing blond hair and dressed in white…

_There is a lady all in white, holds me and sings a lullaby, she’s nice to see, and she’s soft to touch, she says ‘Cosette, I love you very much’…_

“Your cause means a great deal to me, you know,” she finally says, stirring her courage.

He looks at her again, and suddenly she realizes why his blue eyes strike her so much; they resemble her mother’s, resemble Fantine’s. She was too young to remember very much at all about her mother, but she remembers looking into a pair of shockingly blue eyes just before being left at the inn.

“I know papa told you that he adopted me,” Cosette continues, working at re-bandaging Enjolras’ shoulder. “That my mother was a worker in one of his factories.”

“He did, yes,” Enjolras says, gentle, because he senses how difficult a story this is for her to tell.

“My father abandoned my mother,” she tells him. “And I never knew him. I have very hazy memories of my mother; she left me in the care of the Thenardiers when I was two, possibly three, but papa told me she had no idea what sorts of people they were, how cruel they would be to me. Their daughter, Eponine, who died at the barricade, she was a friend of Marius’.”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers. “I confess…I thought I saw something in your eyes when we lit the candle for her, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

“We weren’t friends as children,” Cosette says. “Her parents never would have allowed it; but I feel terrible for what happened to her; Marius says they treated her horribly as she grew older, which is only made worse by the fact that they seemed to love her a great deal when we were children, and the loss of that... She also died trying to save Marius and for that I will be forever grateful to her, but I wish she hadn’t died, I wish… I wish I could have helped her, somehow. I know Gavroche is safe here with us, but I can only hope Azelma, Eponine’s younger sister, fares better, away from her terrible parents.”

“I know of the Patron-Minette gang,” Enjolras says. “One of their men infiltrated our barricade, though I didn’t realize it until after the man was dead. I’m so sorry the Thenardiers treated you so terribly Cosette. You are truly remarkable for being the kind person you are, despite that treatment. I have found, in my time, orphans to be some of the strongest, most selfless people I’ve met; Feuilly, Gavroche too, as his parents abandoned him…you.”

Cosette smiles sadly, tying off the bandage.

“I’ve never found bitterness a suitable route,” she tells him, sitting down on the edge of the bed now. “But now that I know all my mother went through to keep me alive, after papa told me…” she stops, her voice suddenly betraying her.

But then she feels Enjolras’ warm hand touching her arm lightly, encouragingly.

“She sold her hair, her teeth, her body…everything,” Cosette continues after a moment. “All to save me. How could I strive to be anything but grateful after I knew that? Most children would be lucky to have such a mother. But what I wanted to say was thank you. Thank you for fighting a cause on behalf of children like me, on behalf of women like my mother; it means a great deal to me, knowing that people are willing to risk their lives for a different world where my mother’s situation, my situation, might have been prevented. Because if not for my papa rescuing me from that awful place, there’s certainly no telling what would have happened to me. So…thank you.”

“You are most welcome mademoiselle,” Enjolras says. “But I fear you give me too much credit.”

“No,” Cosette says, meeting his gaze head on once more. “I’m not. You deserve it; you are a brave, compassionate soul, Enjolras. All of you are. And if there’s a way, I’d like to help. With the cause that is.”

“Absolutely,” he says, smiling fully now. “We are ever looking for new perspectives. Combeferre will be thrilled to have a woman’s thoughts; the suffering of women is one of the topics he gets most fervent about, I’ve found. I’ve learned a great deal about it from him.”

“As soon as you’re well then,” she tells him, placing a kiss on his cheek before he can stop her. “Now sleep!” she chides him. “You were supposed to be asleep already, so you’d best do so or Combeferre will worry himself into the floor. I also do not think papa will sleep properly until you and Marius are fully healed, so to bed with you, that it might happen faster.”

“Of course,” he says, eyes twinkling as they fall closed. “Thank you, Cosette.”

“You’re most welcome, Enjolras,” she says.

With that she closes the door, feeling very much as if she’s just cemented the beginning of a wonderful friendship.

A/N: Hello again! I know I have been neglecting Valjean somewhat lately, but the next couple of chapters are so full of him you won’t even know what hit you. I hope you enjoyed this!

 


	18. News from Paris

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

 Chapter 18: News from Paris

Five days pass, and things at least have the appearance of settling down, though Valjean does not yet trust the situation, does not trust that Javert won’t burst on them at any given moment.

He only hopes it won’t happen.

He sits alone on the back portico, enjoying the sunshine on his face, enjoying this moment of peace, of quiet amongst the intense insanity of the past few weeks.

And yet that heavy, burning, near-constant anxiety fills the pit of his stomach, the same anxiety he felt in those first days with Cosette after Javert chased them through Paris, fiery, hot, and unending.

He doesn’t welcome its return.

He’s lived his entire post-breaking-parole existence on edge, but none so much as those first days with Cosette; when he initially broke parole it was only himself he had to worry for, but taking Cosette into his care added an entirely new layer to his apprehension.

And now with Cosette, with all of these young men under his protection?

He hardly knows how to handle the constant stress, and he isn’t sleeping more than a few hours a night, incessantly awakened by nightmares of which he can only remember flashes, but nightmares nonetheless. He sees Cosette’s heartbroken expression when M. Gillenormand finds out his true past and steals Marius away, sees all the boys shout and sob as Javert drags Enjolras away, sees a vision of Enjolras locked in the galleys like himself, that flame of perpetual hope burnt completely out with despair, sees him standing before a firing squad, defiant and strong until the bullets knock him down.

He shakes his head, willing the images away.

He cannot let these things happen.

The sound of the door opening slightly jolts him from his reverie, and he turns, seeing Marius standing before him, looking nervous.

“I’m not bothering you am I monsieur?” he asks shyly. “I could come back…”

“No son, it’s perfectly fine, I’m just thinking,” Valjean tells him, patting the chair next to him. “Join me if you like.”

Marius does, sitting down across from Valjean and knotting his fingers in his lap, looking determined but still a bit afraid.

Valjean doesn’t know for certain, what with everything going on it could be anything making him nervous, but he senses he might know what this particular form of nerves is about.

“Are you feeling alright?” Valjean asks. Marius’ injury still prevents him from wearing a waistcoat just yet, and Valjean can see the white bandage poking out from underneath the top of his dark green shirt.

“Still in a bit of pain, still a bit shaky and weary,” Marius admits, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “But Combeferre says I need to start building my strength back up slowly now that the initial recovery is over. I just have to be careful to not re-open the wound, since it’s started healing. I only worry for Enjolras; I know he’s getting better every day, but his recovery will take longer than mine; he got shot twice, and that infection…”

Valjean nods, remembering the immensely frustrated look on Enjolras’ face a few days ago when first learning to manage the cane for his leg; Combeferre now allows him out of bed for a few hours a day, and it’s progress, but for someone like Enjolras, especially in this particular situation, a situation where he clearly wants to protect his friends at any and all cost to himself, Valjean knows it’s maddening.

“I will do everything in my power to make sure he’s alright,” Valjean assures him, briefly grasping Marius’ shoulder. “That I can promise you. And Combeferre seems quite apt at getting Enjolras to rest and take his medication.”

“That’s because Combeferre has that power with everyone, and with Enjolras in particular,” Marius says, smile widening now. “He’s very hard to say no to, with his furrowed brow and his expression that says ‘please just do this so you’ll feel better.’ Enjolras is stubborn, certainly, but he is always willing to at least listen to all of us when it comes to his own well-being, and he listens to Combeferre especially.”

“You all have a truly impressive bond,” Valjean tells him, sincere, almost wistful. He’s never truly had friends; he’s had acquaintances surely, but he’s never had anyone closer to his own age that he can speak with about his troubles. His transient life since breaking his parole largely prevented that, and even during his stint as mayor, he was never able to forge the kind of relationships these boys created with each other, simply didn’t understand how, and didn’t know if he trusted enough to do so, and he’d been too busy working in his younger years, day in and day out. Cosette, of course, has been the blessing of his life, but the relationship between friends is different than that of a parent and a child, even after the child grows up.

But he has to admit, even if he’s never really had friends, he is pleased with this growing sense of a larger family that’s developing with these boys. He loved his sister and her children very much, loved them enough to steal for them, an action that set up the rest of his life, but this still feels different, somehow.

Almost…better, if he’s honest with himself. Despite the fact that it’s still new, there’s a certain glue that binds them all together, a bond that Valjean senses will not so easily come undone.

“Is there something you wanted to talk with me about?” Valjean asks kindly, noticing that Marius has fallen silent again.

Marius looks up, clearly having gotten lost in his own thoughts.

“I…yes monsieur,” he replies, running a nervous hand through his hair. “I know…I know that we are in a precarious situation, a dangerous situation, but these last few weeks, with the barricades and the loss of my friends, I…I have learned that life is not permanent. It’s fleeting even, and…” he pauses, meeting Valjean’s eyes directly, the barest confidence shining in his eyes. “I love Cosette very much monsieur; she is truly the most incredible woman I’ve ever come across and I…” he breathes in, still holding Valjean’s gaze. “I wanted to ask your permission to propose to her.”

Valjean’s heart beats wildly in his chest; he is ecstatic and melancholy all at once, but such is the lot of a parent as their child moves through life, he’s found. He knew this was coming, wanted it to come, and yet somehow he is still so surprised that it takes him a moment to respond.

“I know she means the world to you,” Marius says, clearly worried now at what he believes is Valjean’s hesitance. “And I know you worry for the secrets you’ve had to keep for so long, but you can always trust me with them monsieur. I will treat them with the utmost care, just as I will treat Cosette.”

At this, Valjean cannot help but smile, and Marius smiles shakily in return, hope gleaming in his eyes.

“Of course you have my permission Marius,” he says, reaching out for his future son in law’s hands and grasping them lightly. “I could not hope for a better husband for Cosette. She loves you dearly. I am sorry I worried you just now, it was only the emotion of an old man.”

Marius smiles again, exhaling a breath.

“When do you plan on proposing?” Valjean asks.

“Whenever the moment seems right, now that I have your permission,” Marius answers, voice dancing with joy. “I simply had to have that. But my grandfather gave me a ring that belonged to my mother that I plan to use as the engagement ring. It’s hidden in Courfeyrac’s room.”

Valjean chuckles, warmth filling him. He has worked for years to ensure Cosette’s happiness, and finally it seems as though it might be on the horizon. The dark shadow of Javert looms over them and until that is neutralized he will not be easy, but he also knows he cannot hold back his daughter’s life because of that fear, not when the chance for her future sits solidly in front of him.

There’s another knock on the doorframe, and both Valjean and Marius turn, seeing a rather flustered looking Madame Bellard holding the newspaper. She’s been fully informed of the situation of course, has worked for M. Gillenormand’s family for years, and Valjean feels he can trust her, a rare thing for him.

“What’s the matter?” Valjean asks instantly. “Is someone here?”

“No monsieur, nothing like that,” she assures him, handing over the paper. “It’s only that there’s news of the fates of two rebel leaders in today’s paper and I thought you should know, that the boys should know. It’s on the second page. And there’s also a letter here for Monsieur Enjolras, from his mother, I think.”

“Thank you Madame,” he says, nodding at her with a tight, cordial smile. “Would mind terribly going up and retrieving the boys and Cosette? I think the boys are all in Enjolras’ room and Cosette is baking with Toussaint in the kitchen. Once you’ve done that, kindly tell Toussaint what you know, and then ask her to please find my paper and envelopes from where we packed them so that I might write M. Gillenormand.”

“Of course monsieur,” she responds, leaving swiftly to do as asked.

Valjean places the letter on the table, which is indeed from Flora, and ignoring the local Avignon news on the front page and turning to the second page; tension is radiating off Marius’ body as he leans closer to Valjean, eyes widening in time with his future father-in-law’s when they land on the headline.

**Parisian Insurgent Republican Leaders Sentenced to Death, Life in Prison.**

“I don’t know Geoffrey, but Charles Jeanne,” Marius whispers, fear making his voice tremble, because of course he’s thinking of Enjolras, what will happen to him if Javert ever manages to get his hands on him. “Enjolras met with him, we all met with his group of students and workers several times; he led one of the largest groups in Paris, and now they’re going to kill him. And this other man gets life in prison, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but…” he trails off, the bubble of happiness about receiving permission to propose to Cosette deflating quite violently.

Valjean reads a bit further, seeing the blatant propaganda weaved through the article; it’s clear Louis-Phillipe wants these rebels portrayed as an extremist minority when he likely knows that isn’t the case, but that’s the tool he’ll use to frighten an already terrified and weakened people, a people struck down in the past two years by the worse outbreak of Cholera France has seen in decades, by an economic downturn from which the country cannot  break free.

“It says here that the king might consider commuting the death sentence to life in prison,” Valjean says, a chill running down his back, cold and unforgiving. He doesn’t want to say he would have preferred death over the galleys because then he wouldn’t have been able to help Cosette, wouldn’t have been able to help anyone, but he also cannot wish life in prison on these men, cannot wish the cruel, unjust French penal system as an escape from death because it feels like a _living_ death.

Before Marius can respond they hear voices on the stairs.

“Careful Enjolras, please,” Combeferre says, his voice ripe with worry. “You’re just getting used to walking with this cane, let alone walking at all.”

“I’m fine Combeferre, I promise,” Enjolras argues, clearly rushed to get down the stairs and hear the news.

“You’re _not_ ,” Combeferre answers, the smallest ounce of harsh frustration in his usually calm tone. “Now please just let Grantaire help you, alright? Just take his arm until we get down the stairs.”

There’s a small huff of annoyed breath from Enjolras, but there’s also the sound of people moving around, so it sounds as if Enjolras followed Combeferre’s request. After a few moments the boys appear, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Gavroche come first, followed by Enjolras and Grantaire; Enjolras uses the cane on his left side, a shaking hand grasping Grantaire’s forearm tightly, and they are followed by a rather flustered Combeferre, who helps Grantaire sit Enjolras down in the chair next to Valjean. His face is incredibly pale against the blonde hair, but his cheeks are red from the mere exertion of walking down the stairs. Cosette dashes in behind them, baking powder on the tip of her nose.

“What’s happened?” Enjolras asks Valjean, polite but sounding so out of breath he might have just come in from running. “Madame Bellard said there was something in the paper? And a letter for me?”

Valjean silently hands the paper over, pointing to the article, watching as all the boys and Cosette gather around Enjolras’ chair, reading along with him. Valjean watches Enjolras’ eyes widen and then narrow, a glint of slightly terrifying fury sparking within them.

“Geoffrey was the one who ran out first at LaMarque’s funeral,” Enjolras says quietly, but his voice shakes with unbridled anger. “I met him a few times, and I saw him run out with the flag. And Jeanne,” he looks around at his friends for a moment. “We met with him, with his group, several times over the years organizing gatherings and rallies and those sorts of things. Geoffrey must have someone to protest his sentence on his behalf, some sort of connection to prevent him from a death condemnation. But I’m not surprised they want to get rid of Charles Jeanne; getting rid of him does a great deal to crush our message, to make us all look like insane extremists.”

Enjolras’ hand squeezes the arm of the chair so hard his knuckles turn flaming red and he says nothing else, Courfeyrac’s hand coming down to rest carefully on his uninjured left shoulder.

“It says there’s a chance his sentence might get commuted to prison,” Valjean tells them. “But no one can predict in this atmosphere.”

“There may yet be hope for him then,” Combeferre says, sitting on the arm of Enjolras’ chair and very gently taking the hand that so firmly grasps the edge and preventing it from growing even redder. “If the regime changes, or if the people rise and there is a successful rebellion…”

Valjean watches Enjolras grasp Combeferre’s hand almost unconsciously at those words, but he’s still staring down at the paper, a storm of rage erupting in his eyes.

“Or if Louis-Phillipe decides he’s punished the naughty children enough,” Courfeyrac chimes in, looking grim.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Valjean says. “But I also wouldn’t wish life in prison on anyone. But nor would I wish them death.”

Valjean’s eyes catch on Enjolras out of reflex, everyone’s eyes catch on him because though they are all in a certain amount of danger, it’s his face plastered on all the posters, it’s him they’re hunting.

And Enjolras can’t help but notice everyone’s gazes locked on him.

“I would almost rather die than be in the custody of the king I fight against,” he says. “And with some of the prison conditions…that’s almost as good as death. But the chance of release, of living to try and fight again…” he stops, uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

Valjean watches Courfeyrac tighten his grip on Enjolras’ shoulder, watches Enjolras himself lean slightly into Combeferre, watches Feuilly take Grantaire’s trembling hand in his own, watches Marius move closer to his friends, watches Cosette put an arm around Gavroche.

“How long did all of you spend preparing for this?” Valjean hears himself asking, suddenly feeling the need to know this particular piece of the puzzle surrounding these young men.

“Years,” Enjolras answers. “We all met years ago, formed our society, made contacts, got involved.”

“Some of us also fought on the 1830 barricades,” Courfeyrac adds. “It certainly wasn’t a passing fancy, not for any of us. We learned, we prepared…”

“Basically if it involved Republicanism, politics, history, revolution, insurrection, and people’s rights,” Feuilly finishes for his friend. “We knew it. With all of us combined, we knew it.”

Quiet falls for a moment, everyone’s thoughts so loud Valjean swears he can hear them whirring through the room.

“I expected death,” Enjolras begins, his hymn-like voice cutting into the temporary silence with such power Valjean finds himself enthralled. “I expected arrests, I expected martyrs and fallen comrades and fallen friends. I expected that to hurt, and it most certainly does. But I cannot allow them to quell our message this way, not in the wake of these losses that shake us all to our core. If they think killing our leaders, throwing them in prison and portraying us as some kind of extremist minority, will stop us from fighting for this cause, for fighting in memory of our friends, for fighting for a people who stand with us in heart and mind even if they did not this time stand with us in body because of the fear this regime spreads through our country, they are wrong. I cannot let their lies stand.”

“I agree,” Combeferre says. “But the best way to do that is to make sure you’re safe. That we’re all safe so we can fight another day. So we can pick up and find a way to start again.”

Combeferre kneels down next to Enjolras’ chair, and despite the fact that everyone else watches them, Combeferre takes Enjolras’ chin in one hand, gently forcing his friend to look him in the eyes, eyes that still burn with righteous anger, breath that still comes in short, rapid gasps.

“We must stay together,” Feuilly echoes, and Combeferre looks away from Enjolras’ face for only a moment and then looks back, waiting for their chief’s response.

Enjolras nods, giving into his friends, but to Valjean’s eye it almost looks as if he doesn’t quite see them, so absorbed is he in his own thoughts. After a moment he jumps slightly, placing a hand on the side of Combeferre’s face for a moment before remembering the letter in his hand. He opens it and reads rapidly down the page, all of their eyes fixed on him. He gets to the end, his arm falling limp, but his fist clenching around the letter even still.

“Enjolras?” Marius prods carefully, putting a hand on his friend’s knee. “What is it?”

“Javert’s officers raided my family’s small home in Paris, where my mother was staying, just before she left the city,” Enjolras says, finally taking his eyes off the letter. “She assures me she’s fine, that she told them she didn’t know where I was, and they had no proof to meddle with her further. But she also says they told her they plan to visit our home in Marseilles where I grew up, where my father currently is, but my mother won’t be able to get there in time to warn him, though she says she sent an urgent letter.”

“But she’s alright?” Valjean questions. “They didn’t harm her?”

“No monsieur,” Enjolras says, looking up at Valjean, relief mixed with concern in his eyes. “She assures me she’s alright, but my father will not be pleased to see the police at his doorstep. We don’t get along well, my father and I, and though I don’t think he’ll tell them where we are, I do rather fear for his reaction, for his anger at my mother, for him storming here from Marseilles.”

“We will worry about that when and if it happens,” Valjean says, squeezing Enjolras’ forearm. “Did she say where she was?”

“She was writing from Courfeyrac’s parents’ home, actually,” Enjolras says, glancing at his friend with a small smile. “They both send their relief that you’re alive and ask that you please write them when it’s safe. And your mother sends her love.” Enjolras looks away from Courfeyrac and to Grantaire. “Adrienne and her husband are actually traveling with my mother at the moment, for safety’s sake until all of this blows over.”

“I can’t imagine anyone they’d be safer with,” Grantaire says, mildly amused. “I would fear for my life going up against your mother.”

And at that the tension finally breaks ever so much, and everyone chuckles, Enjolras included.

“She must have charmed my parents,” Courfeyrac adds. “If they let her stay with them; my mother is friendly, but my father can be a bit hard to please. He’s pleased I survived, but he was never pleased about my political actions.”

Enjolras grasps Courfeyrac’s hand in solidarity for a moment before turning to Combeferre.

“She’s going to visit your parents tomorrow if possible,” Enjolras tells him. “She sent a letter ahead, and then she wants to try and get home before the police arrive, since it will take them a few days. I suppose it’s just a matter of time.”

Silence falls again, everyone lost in their own private thoughts until Enjolras speaks.

“I’m afraid I’ve rather…worn myself out,” he admits. “But thank you monsieur, for letting us know. And for protecting us; truly we can never thank you enough.”

“It is the least I could do,” Valjean says sincerely, his head pounding now. “But rest, please. You need it.”

Enjolras nods, taking the arm Grantaire offers to help him walk once more, cane clunking against the hardwood as they go. Marius follows them, briefly stopping to kiss Cosette’s hand and leaving the two of them alone.

“Oh Papa,” Cosette says, taking Enjolras’ vacated chair. Valjean’s heart is so full right now he can hardly look at her without feeling rare tears prick his eyes; just minutes ago he’d agreed to let Marius offer her his hand in marriage, and now danger is in the forefront again, and it’s such a strange mix of emotions that he almost fears to speak.

“Do you think Inspector Javert will find us here?” she continues, folding his larger hand into both of her smaller ones. “Is it possible?”

“It…” Valjean hesitates. He doesn’t want to tell her the truth, doesn’t want to worry her, but he knows now, that he owes her that. Their relationship has changed somewhat since he was honest with her about his past, about her mother. They’ve grown closer, and he’s also acknowledged the fact that she is growing up, that he can no longer hide secrets from her. And in the face of this, he needs her to be prepared.

“It’s not impossible,” he tells her, squeezing her hands that hold his. “Javert is a solid policeman, as far as I can tell, and it’s possible he could find us. I don’t know if he remembered Marius’ name when he saw me carrying him from the sewer, I don’t know if he will remember and then make connections to M. Gillenormand and to his family property records. But he very well could, Cosette. I cannot lie to you. He’s not out to arrest all of these boys, though I don’t suspect returning to Paris would be wise for any of them at the moment, they must be on watch lists, but I do know they will try and defend Enjolras should Javert find us here, that they will try and protect him against arrest.”

At his words Cosette throws her arms around him, embracing him fiercely, much like she had as a child, once she learned that he would not harm her as Madame Thenardier always had at any sign of Cosette’s touch.

“I will do everything in my power to protect all of them,” Valjean tells her softly. “I promise you, Cosette. I promise you. I know how much you love Marius, how fond you’ve grown of all of them.”

He hugs her tightly and pulls her closer, praying to God that he will find a way.

A/N: I hope you liked this! Sorry for the lack of Javert in this chapter, but he will be back next time around!


	19. A Gathering Storm

 Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

 One note, this first section in italics is a dream, just wanted to make that clear!

                                Chapter 18: A Gathering Storm

_The sound of the drumbeat throbs in Combeferre’s ears._

_It grows louder with each passing minute, with each passing second, and he just wants it to cease, wants it to stop it right this instant because for some reason he’s not yet sure of, it strikes fear into every crevice of his being._

_He’s in Paris somehow, in the center of a large crowd, and he’s not sure how he got here or where he is exactly. And why the drumbeats?_

_There’s a raised platform several feet away; eight armed men stand upon it, four on each side, faces cold, stoic, and devoid entirely of emotion. Combeferre looks to the left of the platform and sees the king sitting on a second raised platform in an ornate chair which doesn’t make any sense because why would the king put himself out in the middle of a rowdy crowd this way, why would he risk his own safety, even if he’s surrounded by his personal guards._

_Combeferre breathes in, eyes widening in utter horror when he realizes just where he is and what’s about to happen in front of his eyes._

_An execution. An execution is about to happen._

_But whose? And why is he here in the first place? Combeferre is against public executions entirely, doesn’t care for any form of execution at all unless there is simply no other way, and he certainly wouldn’t attend one._

_But then he looks up._

_His heart jumps into his throat, pounding so forcefully that it hurts, sending waves of pain radiating through every inch of his body._

_Enjolras._

_It’s Enjolras’ execution._

_Two men lead his best friend, his comrade in arms, his brother in heart and soul and mind, up the platform by his arms, hands tied in front of him with a coil of rough rope, blonde hair fluttering freely in the wind, not tied back as it usually is._

_The sound of a voice behind him rips Combeferre’s gaze away from Enjolras, and he turns, seeing Courfeyrac behind him._

_“Combeferre,” he pleads, more desperate, more broken than Combeferre can ever recall hearing him, eyes wide and bloodshot, the light erased from those laughing dark green irises.  “Please Combeferre you have to save him, you have to.”_

_Suddenly Grantaire, Feuilly, and Gavroche are there too, shouting at him in harsh tones._

_“Save him!” they cry. “You’re the only one who can save him!”_

_Combeferre whips around and somehow catches Enjolras’ eye from across the crowd. He’s too far away to catch the exact emotions in Enjolras’ eyes, but his face remains like marble, cracked marble perhaps, but marble nonetheless. He holds Combeferre’s gaze and shakes his head ever so slightly when he sees his friend step forward._

_“Don’t try to save me,” is what Enjolras says with that gesture. “You cannot save me and keep the others safe.”_

_Combeferre watches, frozen, as one of the guards attempts to tie the black blindfold around Enjolras’ eyes, but he pushes the man’s hands away, shaking his head again._

_He doesn’t want the blindfold, and he won’t let go of Combeferre’s gaze, blue eyes crackling with such intensity they look as if they might shoot off lightning._

_“Any last words, boy?” Louis-Phillipe’s voice suddenly calls through the crowd, a horrible laugh in his air, but Combeferre cannot look over, cannot break Enjolras’ gaze._

_A fleeting look passes across Enjolras’ face, a look that says he wants to tell this wretched king that he is no boy, but a man ready and about to die for his ideals, for fighting for the betterment of this country he loves so ferociously._

_But he doesn’t say that._

_“Long live the republic,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t shout, but somehow the power in his voice sends a hush over the crowd. “One day, France will be free from your tyranny, monsieur. A dream such as this does not die with me, because you cannot bury the light of the future. Of that I am certain.”_

_He still holds Combeferre’s gaze._

_The eight men gather in a line in front of Enjolras, but Combeferre is tall enough that he can just barely hold Enjolras’ eyes. Combeferre’s entire person shakes as he feels his other friends’ hands grabbing at him, sees the tiniest flicker of fear pass across Enjolras’ face before returning to its former expression._

_“Take aim!” one soldier calls._

_Combeferre tenses and words erupt from his throat before he can control himself._

_“Enjolras!” he shouts. “Please, don’t shoot!”_

_“Fire!” the guard exclaims as if he didn’t even hear Combeferre’s cry._

_But Enjolras did, and disappointment flashes in his eyes as he falls to the ground as if pinned there by bullets, a river of red flowing down from the platform and onto the street._

Combeferre sits straight up in bed, panting and unable to get a deep breath.

He closes his eyes, the doctor in him telling his irrational subconscious to calm down, to breathe deeply, the vicious claws of a panic digging into him. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and throws the covers off, resting his head in his quivering hands. He sits there for a few moments but he cannot calm down, cannot cease his wild thoughts, cannot erase the bloody images from his head, so he throws on one of the new dressing gowns Valjean purchased for all of them (the man is independently wealthy he’s learned, from running a factory in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and no matter their protests, he’s been adamant about purchasing anything that might be needed or desired) and walks quietly two doors down the hallway to Enjolras’ room.

He pushes the door open without a sound, releasing a breath when he sees Enjolras sleeping rather soundly in bed, covers pulled up to his chin, hair looking almost like a halo loose and splayed out on the feather pillow. It’s been a little over three weeks since the barricades fell, and this looks like the first decent sleep Enjolras has gotten as far as Combeferre can tell, so despite his desire to wake Enjolras up, to check him over and know for certain he’s continuing to get better, Combeferre resists. He watches Enjolras, leaning in the doorway, until he feels his breathing calm and the shaking desist, and turns to go down to the kitchen in search of tea or coffee, knowing full well he won’t fall back asleep now. Enjolras tired himself out yesterday by staying out of bed for too long, so Combeferre knows he will have to insist he stay in bed today, despite the arguments.

He’s just reached the top of the stairs however, when he hears what sounds like a strangled cry from the room nearest him.

From Grantaire’s room.

He stops, turning around and walking toward the sound. He knocks softly on the door, the sound ceasing.

“I…who is it?” Grantaire asks, pushing an unconvincing calm into his voice. “Now’s not really…”

“It’s Combeferre,” Combeferre replies gently. “May I come in please?”

There’s a sigh, a pause, a hesitance, and then an affirmation.

“Yes,” Grantaire replies. “Just…close the door behind you.”

Combeferre enters and does as requested, looking up to see a Grantaire he doesn’t quite recognize; there’s no sound of his rough but genuine laugh or the glint of glee in his eyes, like he’s used to when Grantaire has a good day, there not even a trace of that almost hopeful adoration Combeferre sees on his face when he’s listening to Enjolras speak. But there’s also no slur to his voice, no reddened cheeks from the warm alcohol, no ranting words that indicate a bad day. It’s just pure, unadulterated sadness. Pure fear.

“Why are you awake?” Grantaire asks, indicating that Combeferre can sit down on the bed. “It’s really early. Sun’s just coming up.”

“Nightmares,” Combeferre answers honestly, looking Grantaire directly in the eyes and sensing his friend has just experienced the same problem.

Grantaire finally meets his eyes, and for some reason it jolts Combeferre to see tears within them, tears Grantaire wipes away quickly. Combeferre isn’t overly sure what to do with this Grantaire, but he tries anyhow, reaching out to stop Grantaire’s hand and taking hold.

“You were having nightmares too,” Combeferre confirms. “Nightmares about Enjolras.”

Grantaire breathes in sharply, but nods.

“I saw him dead,” he says, shaking his head and looking away from Combeferre again but not releasing his hand. “Just dead on the ground in a pool of blood and I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t…”

At this Grantaire breaks down, losing the ability to talk, and out of instinct Combeferre pulls him in for a hug, although this particular friend has never been the most tactile of their group. Grantaire tenses, surprised, but gives in after a mere moment, resting his head on Combeferre’s shoulder and actually wrapping a tentative arm around Combeferre in return. Grantaire sniffs and then laughs, which sounds odd in the moment.

“I think I’m getting phlegm on you,” Grantaire says, voice audible again.

“It doesn’t matter,” Combeferre says, pulling back and placing both hands on Grantaire’s shoulders, a smile toying with the edges of his lips. “I’ve had much worse on me in my days studying medicine.”

“You… had a nightmare about Enjolras too?” Grantaire asks, looking a smidge unsure.

Combeferre nods, unable to keep from grimacing; full-color images of the horrific nightmare overtake his mind with startling clarity.

“I saw him being executed,” Combeferre says honestly, sensing that Grantaire doesn’t need a softer truth, but the whole truth in order that he might not feel so alone in his terror. He needs empathy, not lies. “And all of you were begging me to save him and yet he told me to protect the rest of you. I didn’t…I didn’t know what to do.”

“God, the first thing I wanted to do was go find a drink when I woke up,” Grantaire admits. “It’s all I’ve known when I’m upset, when I’m frightened. I didn’t, but…” he pauses, looking off into the distance for a moment and then turning back to Combeferre, searching his face. “I’m not you Combeferre, I haven’t fought for your cause for all these years, haven’t been inside his head as you have; I’ve tried to stand with him and failed every time he gave me an opportunity. All I’ve done is kicked my own feet from under me, venerated him from the table in the corner. I know he considered me his friend even though I frustrated the hell out of him, and I know that we’ve grown closer now, but I don’t…I just don’t deserve it, don’t deserve to even be granted the privilege of worrying. Not like you.”

“R,” Combeferre says, knowing his rare use of the nickname will warm Grantaire. “Enjolras doesn’t walk around dictating who does and who does not deserve his friendship…”

“I know,” Grantaire interrupts, apologetic. “I know that. It’s me who decided I don’t deserve it, not Enjolras.”

“You have _always_ been a part of all of our lives, a part of Enjolras’ life. You have been our loyal friend,” Combeferre says, taking Grantaire’s hand again and holding it lightly. “And that has always been true. And you have never shunned our ideals Grantaire, you have only been afraid to fight for fear of them crumbling before you, for fear of us crumbling, for fear of failure. But Enjolras always knew you were capable of believing, that a part of you did believe in a better world, in hope, and that’s why he pushed you, that’s why he disdained your drinking, disdained your feigned apathy, why he trusted you, why we all trusted you to remain there during our most secret meetings. I don’t know if you noticed, but Enjolras doesn’t spend a lot of his life wasting time on people who don’t have potential; he sees the best in people. Because how could you believe so strongly in Enjolras himself without also deep down believing in everything he stands for? He _is_ what he stands for. Why would you befriend all of us, a group of fervent, passionate idealists unless you were looking for a different way of thinking?”

“I…” Grantaire starts, but cannot finish.

“Your desire to seek the light has wrapped itself up in your love for Enjolras,” Combeferre says, kind. “And that was never completely clear to Enjolras himself until the barricades fell. But he understands more fully now, hopes that he can turn that belief focused on his ability to change this world into belief of a larger kind, into belief in yourself. You might not fight for our cause just yet, but you fought for us that day, when we were escaping from the barricade. You were just as brave as any of us in that moment. You would do anything for any of us, and that means everything.”

Grantaire squeezes Combeferre’s hand, looking down again with his gaze stuck on the coverlet.

“Has anyone ever told you that your knack for being right is incredibly irritating?” Grantaire asks, but there is the smallest grin on his face, fondness in his tone.

“Courfeyrac tells me that regularly,” Combeferre says, smiling now. “And Bahorel used to as well.”

There’s the usual, pained moment of silence at the mention of one of their deceased friends’ names, and Combeferre feels it hit him like a physical blow. He suspects it will never fade, but they are all growing terribly accustomed to the gaping holes their friends left in their wake.

“I don’t want him to die,” Grantaire whispers after a moment. “We already almost lost him once, I don’t…I swear if Javert finds us here I will rip him limb from limb to stop him from arresting Enjolras.”

Combeferre wants to tell Grantaire that he will protect Enjolras with everything in him, that he will find a way to keep them all together, and he sincerely believes that’s a possible scenario because he always, always hopes for the best.

But he also remembers the promise Enjolras exacted from him, remembers the rare desperation in his best friend’s voice, his unyielding desire to save and protect the rest of them even if it meant throwing himself into Javert’s hands.

He knows Enjolras better than anyone else, and yet in this situation…

In this situation he doesn’t know if he can predict anything, cannot prepare, cannot reason his way out, cannot predict Enjolras himself. And for Combeferre, for whom preparedness and reason form the solidity of his person, it is a most discomfiting position.

“It will be alright,” Combeferre tells Grantaire, because that’s all he can say, that’s all he can think to say, and that’s terrifying. He’s always been apt at comforting, at calming, at easing fears. He grounds people in the good of the present even through the shadows of the darkness they might experience, and in turn Enjolras takes that strength and bids them to look toward the good of the future, the good they must fight for. And yet now the whole process feels so fractured because everything they’ve known has been ripped out from under them. Combeferre knows in his heart that this is reparable, that things will naturally improve, but right now he feels so lost, and he does not yet know how to fix that problem. They prepared for years for this revolution, for its aftermath if they survived, and yet this combination of circumstances came unexpectedly.

 “We will be alright. Enjolras will be alright,” Combeferre continues, voice a bit stronger now. “It will be alright.”

Grantaire looks at him as if uncertain whether Combeferre is trying to convince him or himself, but nods, relaxing somewhat.

“Let’s go downstairs for a bit and find some tea,” Combeferre says, clasping Grantaire’s shoulder. “I’ve met Englishmen in Paris who swear by its calming properties.”

Grantaire agrees and follows him to the kitchen, where an already awake Toussaint and Madame Bellard brew them tea, and they sit together, talking over the newspaper. After an hour or so Combeferre looks at the time and excuses himself to go check on Enjolras, who potentially needs a bandage change and a dose of Laudanum after yesterday’s overexertion.

He knocks on the door, surprised when he hears Enjolras’ voice bidding him to enter, having expected his friend to still be sleeping.

“Good morning,” Combeferre says, leaving the door cracked open behind him. “How are you feeling?”

Enjolras winces obviously as he moves his legs over the side of the bed, steadying himself on his good arm, but Combeferre notices it trembling under all the weight.

“Not so well then?” Combeferre questions, unable to push away the images from his nightmare when he sees Enjolras’ determined expression, unable to push away memories from the night he nearly died from infection, so pale he almost faded away into the white sheets.

“I’m just sore,” Enjolras answers. “A bit stiff. I was going to come downstairs and eat breakfast with you, but I might need your help down the stairs, even with the cane.”

“Bed today, I think,” Combeferre persists, pulling out the Laudanum. “For the morning at the very least. You’re getting better, but we kept you out far too long yesterday. This takes time.”

“I’m fine Combeferre,” Enjolras argues, the tiniest trace of annoyance in his tone, annoyance that is almost never directed at Combeferre, so it takes him by surprise, though he expected Enjolras’ stubbornness.

“You are most certainly _not_ fine,” Combeferre perseveres. “Just indulge me won’t you? Stay in bed and take this.”

“Combeferre…” Enjolras tries again, softer this time, but Combeferre feels his heart pounding inexplicably in his chest, his normally composed attitude escaping him in wake of his terrible dream, in wake of the pressure building and expanding in this house as the days go by and Javert potentially gets closer.

“You are being ridiculous,” Combeferre snaps, flustered, but he isn’t raising his voice. “You were nearly fatally injured, you cannot expect to simply do as you like in a matter of three weeks, it just isn’t that simple. You nearly died, Enjolras, did you forget?”

Enjolras stares at him, and Combeferre nearly laughs at how childlike his expression is, but then Enjolras’ eyes narrow, anger flaring up within them like blue flames.

“That is not so easy to forget,” he says, very clearly trying to keep his voice even. “But I am also not a child that needs coddling, so I would appreciate if you did not treat me in such a way. I know my own body.”

“I am the doctor, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, trying to control his breathing, words seemingly flowing from him uncontrollably. He’s debated with Enjolras, has had perhaps _one_ fleeting disagreement in all their years of friendship, but nothing like this, _never_ like this. They understand each other on a fundamental level, understand each other without needing words, and this throws him. “Not you. You are a lawyer, so I would very much appreciate it if you would listen, for once, about your own well-being. Or are you determined to do yourself in before Javert can even manage to find us? You have grown alarmingly fatalistic.”

“Fatalistic?” Enjolras asks, voice rising. “I want to protect all of you and you refer to that as fatalistic?”

“And we want to protect _you_ ,” Combeferre says, voice growing icier than he likes. “But apparently that doesn’t matter to you.”

“This isn’t even about my overexertion,” Enjolras says, understanding dawning on him. “This is about what I asked of you. You throw that back in my face.”

“No,” Combeferre says, holding back the tears threatening his eyes. “I am only reminding you that your life happens to mean a great deal to all of us, and that you should take proper care of it and stay in this bed. I would never use something you requested of me against you. But if you are determined, go downstairs, but I will not help you hurt yourself, and it will only land you in this bed for longer. You cannot simply get up and walk around all day after 3 weeks of bed rest, your body can’t take it.”

“I am not trying to hurt you by wanting out of this bed,” Enjolras says fiercely, eyes widening, shock and hurt mixing with the anger in his eyes, but he does not try hiding his emotion, not with Combeferre, even in the midst of this argument. “I want to build up my strength so I can prepare myself for whatever might come. You said yourself I needed that, and you’ve let Marius…”

“Marius was not as badly injured as you are,” Combeferre says, clenching his fists, his voice growing quiet and harsh, some words merely a hiss as his throat closes with emotion, clauses bitten out before he loses what little control remains within him. “He also did not acquire an infection that nearly killed him. And Marius is much more willing to listen to me when I tell him to rest. We didn’t fight so hard to save you, only for you have such little regard for your own life.”

“I do not disregard my life,” Enjolras protests, cheeks flushing scarlet.

Enjolras looks at him, breathing hard with feeling, and after holding the gaze for a moment Combeferre turns to go, walking quickly past Courfeyrac and Cosette, who are just outside the door, looking baffled.

Courfeyrac’s gaze looks from Enjolras sitting on the bed, flushed and stunned, to Combeferre’s retreating figure. With a quick glance back, Courfeyrac squeezes Cosette’s hand and follows Combeferre, who walks swiftly down the hallway, darting quickly into his room. He knows Courfeyrac followed him, but he also knows trying to fend him off would be futile.

“What happened?” Courfeyrac asks in an uncharacteristically grave tone, shutting the door behind him.

“Why did you come after me and not go to Enjolras?” Combeferre asks in reply, perching on the edge of his bed, fingers sliding back into his hair and wrapping themselves around the dark reddish-brown strands.

“Because at first glance it looked like you might need me more,” Courfeyrac answers. “I just had a feeling. And I thought in this state Enjolras might listen to someone like Cosette. He’s less likely to argue with her, anyway, might calm that fire I saw in his eyes down a bit. I’m asking again: what happened? You and Enjolras never fight, it’s unheard of. I go so far as to call it blasphemous.”

“He won’t _listen_ ,” Combeferre chokes out, hating that he cannot control the emotion in his voice. “He’s self-sacrificing to a damn fault, and he’s so concerned over Javert finding us, so busy looking toward the future of what _might_ happen that he refuses to face his injuries, his illness, in the present.”

“But that’s always been Enjolras,” Courfeyrac points out, sitting by Combeferre’s side on the bed. “He’s always looking toward the future. All of us, you especially, are the ones who ground him in the present just enough, who bring his feet down to the ground ever so much, in the best of ways. We let him fly, but we also remind him to land again.”

“Yes, but now he won’t let us, won’t let me,” Combeferre answers, allowing Courfeyrac to pull him close with one arm, resting his head on Courfeyrac’s always comfortable and welcoming shoulder. “I know,” he breathes in, hating the images that flood his mind, images of Javert dragging Enjolras away, chains locked around his hands. “I know that there’s a chance Javert will find us, I know that, but I don’t want Enjolras making himself worse by trying to prepare for it because not only will it make him worse now, it will weaken him if that day comes. He just needs to _rest_. He’s the _soul_ of us, Courfeyrac, I don’t…”

“Shh,” Courfeyrac says, rubbing a hand up and down Combeferre’s still trembling arm. “I know. Believe me, I know, because I suspect we are all having the same nightmares. Just give him a little while, and I bet he’ll come around. I know he will, because I know Enjolras.”

Combeferre nods, giving into Courfeyrac’s embrace for a few moments, just listening to their breathing.

* * *

 

Enjolras’ mind won’t stop spinning.

Combeferre is angry with him.

Has Combeferre ever truly been angry with him?

No, he doesn’t recall any time even sparingly similar to this. Combeferre’s been frustrated with him before, and Enjolras annoyed, but he can count even those times on one hand without using all his fingers.

They’ve never fought, not once.

Is he angry at Combeferre?

He certainly feels angry, feels his blood pulsing hot through his veins. He know he has a temper when pushed, but having the full-force of said temper directed toward Combeferre is foreign to him, yet he cannot push the feeling away entirely. He needs to regain his strength if he’s going to protect his friends from Javert’s threat, because if the policeman somehow shows up on their doorstep, he’ll be damned if he lets him lay a hand on any of them.

If it comes down to it, if it comes down to his life or theirs…

That isn’t a choice in his mind.

And yet the thought of being separated from them feels like a knife slicing into his heart, the thought of the agony it will cause them if he’s taken, if he’s killed, a bullet shot straight into his soul.

He closes his eyes briefly, hands fisting into the sheets.

He’s the only one who can make this choice, and he wants Comberre to see that, _needs_ him to see that.

And so he rises from the bed, retrieving his cane from where it rests next to him. His legs quiver the moment his feet hit the floor but he takes a step forward anyway, nearly stumbling until a pair of feminine arms seize him just before he hits the floor.

“Easy there,” Cosette’s voice says, hands grasping his forearms. “I think you’re trying to go to fast. If you’re set on going downstairs, at least let me help you.”

Enjolras nods, allowing her to position him so that he’s next to her, one arm looped through her smaller one, the other leaning heavily on his cane.

“Are you sure it won’t hurt you for me to lean on your arm?” Enjolras asks, looking over at her as they exit his room.  

“Not at all,” Cosette says, smiling up at him. “You’re leaning mostly on the cane, I’m just keeping you steady. Combeferre…” she pauses, looking embarrassed. “Combeferre showed me how to do it properly for Marius.”

“You…you heard our disagreement?” Enjolras asks, training his eyes on the floor.

“I didn’t intend to,” Cosette admits. “But Courfeyrac and I were coming to check on you on our way to see if Marius was awake, and…” she trails off, not really needing to explain the rest. “Would you like to talk about it?” she asks.

“I…” Enjolras begins. He wants to talk with Cosette, feels she might understand him, but also knows she might try and tell him that he doesn’t have to hand himself over should Javert find them, that there’s some other way when he knows there isn’t. “I’m not sure what to say, really. I’ve never fought with Combeferre before.”

“I’m certain you will work it out in no time,” Cosette says, easing him down stair by stair, gentle as Combeferre himself. “You two are practically fused together. All of you are really, it’s a beautiful friendship to behold.”

Enjolras nods, Combeferre’s shouts mixing with ever present nightmares, mixing with the sounds of gunfire and screaming from the barricade. He sees Jehan’s face in front of him, feels the poet’s fingers entangling with his own as they had in his one peaceful dream; Jehan would have hated seeing them fight, Enjolras knows.

“I just feel…purposeless,” Enjolras admits before he can stop himself. “Being this injured, this ill, I just want to get back on my feet again. I want to be able to _do_ something.”

“You will,” Cosette assures him. “You will Enjolras, of that I’m certain. But you giving yourself time to heal properly is not useless, it’s what you _need_. And what you need right now is what your friends need.”

Enjolras nods, falling into his thoughts as they approach the dining room, where Feuilly and Gavroche sit at the table, drinking tea and eating freshly baked croissants. They wave at him in greeting, and Enjolras can’t help but smile a bit. The sight makes him happy and yet also sends melancholy rushing through him; he has no doubt that the food they’ve had since coming under Valjean’s care is some of the best Feuilly and Gavroche have ever tasted, and he despises the idea that there were likely many nights when these two went hungry, no matter how much Les Amis tried preventing that once Feuilly and Gavroche came into their fold.

“Morning Enjolras!” Gavroche chirps happily, stuffing bread into his mouth. “Croissant?”

“You shouldn’t eat so quickly,” Enjolras chides, sitting down next to the little boy. “And just tea, I think. Thank you though.”

“You should at least try and eat a half of one, Enjolras,” Feuilly says, promptly taking one and cutting it in two. “You’ve hardly eaten at all recently. Indulge me?”

 _Indulge me, won’t you_? Enjolras hears Combeferre say.

“For you, Feuilly,” Enjolras replies, taking the pastry from his friend.

He stays with them for about half an hour, the pain in his shoulder, and to a much greater extent, his leg, growing more vehement by the minute. He excuses himself, politely declining their offers of assistance, and starts toward the stairs.

But he only makes it about halfway.

He is shaking with effort, muscles burning, knees weak, and he has no other choice but to sit down with his back resting against the wall, sweat pouring down his face from exertion. He wills himself to get back up again before someone finds him here, before Combeferre finds him here.

He hears footsteps nearing him, but can’t look up, can’t stand for any of his friends to see him like this, even though they’ve seen him much worse in the past few weeks.

He just can’t bear to worry them any further, but his body isn’t cooperating.

“Enjolras?”

It’s Grantaire.

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asks, crouching down next to him on the stairs, so close that Enjolras notices the purple smudged under his eyes from lack of sleep.

“I…” Enjolras begins, feeling another punch of pain sock him in the leg.

“I think the answer to that is no,” Grantaire whispers, hesitantly touching Enjolras’ face as though it might be made of glass and turning it toward him.

Enjolras closes his eyes again; he has told Grantaire time and again that he is nothing more than a man, lecturing his friend for all times he’s compared him to various Greek deities, and yet he still doesn’t want Grantaire seeing him so very weak, so helpless. It makes him feel like a hypocrite, and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Enjolras look at me,” Grantaire says. “Please.”

Enjolras does, seeing the worry reflected in his friend’s eyes.

“Why were you out of bed without help?” Grantaire asks.

“Because I…because I need to learn to get around on my own,” Enjolras says, gritting his teeth against the pain, which is now becoming unbearable. “I have to.”

“Not just yet you don’t,” Grantaire replies sternly. He looks down, spying something darkening Enjolras’ trouser leg. “You’re bleeding, Enjolras,” he says, sounding frantic.

“I see that,” Enjolras says, grasping Grantaire’s arm without even realizing he was reaching, eyes darting toward the bottom of the stairs and seeing Valjean approaching them now, gazing at Enjolras perplexed but curious. Enjolras sighs, fingernails digging into his palms against the pain.

 _You need Combeferre_ , the rational voice inside his head says. _And he will come, you know that._

“Grantaire, could you please find Combeferre for me?” Enjolras asks, giving in. “I think he’s with Courfeyrac.”

“Monsieur, will you stay with him for a moment?” Grantaire asks, looking at Valjean.

“Of course,” Valjean says, sitting down on the stairs next to Enjolras, watching as Grantaire goes off down the hall in search of Combeferre.

Silence falls between Valjean and Enjolras for a few seconds, but Enjolras senses a question on the older man’s lips.

“You know you aren’t alone in this, don’t you Enjolras?” Valjean questions. “That we will not simply hand you over to Javert without a fight?”

 _I know_ , Enjolras wants to say. _And that’s just the problem_.

“I have to protect the others,” Enjolras says, hardly knowing what he’s saying now, drowning as he is in pain. He has never wanted the Laudanum, but he wants it now. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me as long as they are safe.”

He meets Valjean’s eyes, seeing an unexpected understanding there, and Enjolras realizes this is how Valjean must feel about Cosette, how he must feel any time something threatens her happiness or well-being.

Valjean doesn’t reply in words, instead wrapping a ginger, careful arm around Enjolras’ waist in order that he might avoid the injured shoulder, and almost against his own accord Enjolras’ head falls on Valjean’s shoulder. It’s such a fatherly gesture, one that Enjolras hasn’t experienced in years from his own distant father, and it makes him feel safe, if only for a moment.

After a few minutes Combeferre arrives with supplies in hand. He reassures Valjean and Grantaire that he can handle it, and they leave him alone with Enjolras.

“Take this,” Combeferre says promptly, pouring the Laudanum into a glass and avoiding Enjolras’ eyes.

Enjolras accepts it silently and tries tipping the glass to his lips, but finds he cannot control his trembling hands.

“Damn it,” he breathes, unable to look at Combeferre, feeling the frustration practically radiating off his best friend.

After a moment he feels Combeferre’s hand curl over his own, directing the glass successfully to his lips, the medication sending warmth spreading through his body. Combeferre remains silent, feeling his forehead and looking disapprovingly at the small blood stain on Enjolras’ trousers.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispers. “I’m sorry for not listening to you.”

“You are bleeding and trembling with pain and fatigue on the stairs, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, sharp but not entirely unkind. “This is why I didn’t want you out of bed, this is why…you are so damned stubborn about your own well-being…”

“I know,” Enjolras says, finally looking Combeferre in the eye. “I know I am. I just…I just don’t want to be weak now, not when I might need to protect the rest of you against Javert, I can’t…I’m _sorry_ Combeferre.”

At this Combeferre puts both hands on the sides of Enjolras’ face, his voice cracked with desperation.

“I don’t want you to fall deathly ill again because you are preparing for something that might not happen,” Combeferre says, searching Enjolras’ face. “I know, I _know_ we always prepare, but don’t you see that trying to prepare for Javert’s possible arrival will only make you weaker? That this will happen time and again? Your body needs _time_ , Enjolras. I know you are used to being the leader, I know that, but do not condemn yourself before Javert even finds us, if he finds us. I understand your need to protect us, but please stop trying when we don’t yet need protection. I didn’t forget what you asked of me, but for now you need to listen to me. _Please_.”

Enjolras nods, resting his forehead against Combeferre’s and feeling the light press of his friend’s lips against his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says again.

“I know,” Combeferre says. “And _I’m_ sorry I lost control on you…I’d had a nightmare just before I came to check in on you, and it rattled me rather a lot.”

Enjolras doesn’t need to ask about the content of the nightmares, because he knows it concerned his death, knew it the moment those words escaped Combeferre’s lips.

“I don’t like worrying you,” Enjolras says, exhaustion overcoming him now. “I hate it.”

“I know,” Combeferre repeats. “But let’s get you up and back to bed, alright? I need to change this leg bandage and check your shoulder for any residual bleeding.”

Enjolras takes his cane, gripping it so hard his knuckles pop white, and Combeferre puts an arm tight around his waist, pulling him close, both doing the best they can to keep as much weight as possible off Enjolras’ bad leg.

After they settle Enjolras back in bed, fresh bandages on both his wounds, Combeferre pulls the closest chair up to the bedside.

“You’re not going anywhere?” Enjolras asks, eyes closing from the pull of the Laudanum. “It’s a beautiful day outside.”

“I think I’ll stay here with you and read,” Combeferre says, smoothing the bedcovers unnecessarily. “Cosette and Marius won’t let up about those British Romantic poets, and I’d only read a few that Jehan suggested to me, so I thought I’d read a few more while I sit here with you. It makes me feel close to Jehan, reading these poems, which make me feel close to all of them, and at the same time I’ll be close to you.”

“I miss them all so much,” Enjolras says. “Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, Bahorel.”

“I do too,” Combeferre says sadly. “I yearn for those nights at the Musain, at the Corinth, the room full to bursting with friends and comrades all sharing a vision of the future. But rest, Enjolras, and they may come to you in dreams.”

Enjolras smiles, reaching out to squeeze Combeferre’s hand in thanks before falling into the arms of slumber.

* * *

 

It’s past nine-thirty in the evening when Bertrand bursts through Javert’s office door without knocking.

“Bertrand, what the devil…” Javert begins, surprised when his underling cuts him off.

“I went by the records office again tonight Inspector,” he begins, speaking in such a rush Javert listens closely in order to make out the phrases. “And finally, after all these days, they found the records related to the Pontmercy boy.”

“Hand them here,” Javert says, reaching out his hand, heart suddenly pounding in his chest.

This could be it, this could be his path to Enjolras and wherever Valjean hides him, this could be his redemption for being mentally unable to apprehend Valjean, and arresting this foolish rebel out from under the convict’s care will hurt Valjean far more than landing back in the galleys himself.

 _But why do you want to hurt him?_ That familiar voice questions. _You nearly jumped off a bridge because you felt it was so morally wrong to arrest him, but you couldn’t live with breaking the law._

Javert pushes the nagging voice away, but it’s not quite done with him.

 _And what about Cosette?_ The voice asks. _What about the girl who stopped you from throwing yourself into that river? Are you willing to show her who you really are when you burst into that house and arrest Enjolras, when you show her that her father’s efforts were for nothing?_

He ignores it again and opens the file, eyes scanning quickly over the words.

“Gillenormand,” he mutters, more to himself than Bertrand. “Owns a house here in Paris and in…”

“Avignon,” Bertrand finishes for him, triumphant, but without a clue how much this means to Javert’s cracked psyche. “And I also received this post at the door from Allard. They raided the Enjolras home in Marseille, but they didn’t find anything, not a sign of Enjolras anywhere, though his father was there, but he appeared clueless as to where his son is. Much like the mother.”

“Or he acted in such a way so as to convince Allard,” Javert says, eyes still staring at the property records as if they’re the holy grail.

“Do you want to go and speak to this Monsieur Gillenormand?” Bertrand asked, sounding slightly unnerved when Javert still doesn’t look up at him, a truly disconcerting grin spreading slowly across his face.

“No,” Javert says, finally looking up, the grin sending a manic glint into his eyes. “There’s no point; he’ll only lie to us or try and warn them if they are there. I’m going to Avignon.”

“Alone, monsieur?” Bertrand asks, backing away from the desk a few steps.

“Yes, alone!” Javert growls. “You think I can’t handle a few twenty-something rebels and an old man with a daughter, Bertrand?”

“No, of course Inspector,” Bertrand says quickly. “You are more than capable.”

“Good then. Please go and leave a note for Prefect Gerard telling him where I’ve gone and find me the next stagecoach in the direction of Avignon.”

“Tonight, Inspector?” Bertrand asks, nervous.

“It’s a six day journey at the fastest,” Javert says. “I need to leave tonight if at all possible.” He breathes in deeply, nodding at Bertrand and regaining his normal professional aloofness.

Bertrand nods in return, exiting the office and going to his errands.

Javert picks up one of the posters of Enjolras resting on his desk, pulling a small knife out of his pocket, a knife he found on the ground at the barricade, the knife he’s certain he saw Valjean use to free his bonds, the knife he’d thought would end his life.

“You won’t shake my foundations 24601,” Javert whispers, flicking open up the weapon. “I shall show you how futile your efforts are.”

He rears back, stabbing the knife into the center of the poster and slicing upwards, tearing the frighteningly beautiful face in half.

“You are mine, Enjolras,” he whispers into the air. “And Valjean will never recover.”  

 


	20. The Wolf and the Archangel

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

Chapter 20: The Wolf and the Archangel

Javert arrived in Avignon in the middle of the night and reported to the small jail just outside the city, informing them that he would need to house a prisoner for the following night. He waited until now, until midday before making his way to the Gillenormand home.

He waits, because they won’t expect him in the daylight.

They will not expect him now, believing themselves safe in the daylight, free from threats and danger and death.

But the daylight is not free from justice.

He feels something settle in his chest when he rounds the bend of the long driveway and sees the manor house laid out in front of him. The house is still. They do not know he is coming. There are no horses ready, no carriages, no escape plan engineered mere hours before he can find them.

Valjean failed.

He utterly failed at protecting these rebels, and Javert will show him just what that means, will show this man of mercy just how futile his efforts are, have always been.

 _And yet you still can’t arrest Valjean himself_ , that ever familiar voice whispers. _Why is that?_

 _Because arresting Enjolras, breaking those rebels’ spirits,_ Javert silently argues. _That will show Valjean how wrong he is. Dragging him back to the galleys will teach him nothing. But arresting Enjolras will put everything right. I will be right. Justice will prevail and the law victorious once more._

He savors the crisp crunch of his boot heels against the gravel with each stride that brings him closer to the house.

To his salvation.

Javert restrains himself as he climbs the few steps leading to the front door, deliberating, deciding on the manner of his entrance, though it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses.

He hears voices from the window immediately to the right of the front door and he diverts his course, hidden by a column of the portico, to look into the room beyond. Javert sees a drawing room of some sort laid out beyond the pane. Enjolras sits in an armchair just behind the glass, entirely unaware and looking weary, a shade of the battle-ready archangel of revolution with righteous fury blazing in his eyes, whose statuesque face plasters the walls of Paris. He is weak, and Javert is strong and resolute but he will not underestimate Enjolras, will not underestimate his friends.

And most certainly will not underestimate Valjean, because he’s learned that lesson one too many times.

Javert sees Valjean’s face, etched as it has been in his mind for twenty years, turn to Enjolras and sees the fondness, the affection, alight in his kind and quiet gaze. Javert sneers, his own gaze taking in the rebel’s eyes, a firestorm of passion even now, which meet Valjean’s with a small, tired smile.

Javert will extinguish that storm until it’s nothing more than a feeble winter rain devoid of all power.

Because Enjolras broke the _law_ , Enjolras broke more laws than Javert can currently name. Enjolras will die or rot away in prison, and Javert will leave Valjean behind, will leave Valjean to wallow in his failure.

Putting Valjean back in prison, he knows, will have no effect because Valjean apparently has no care for himself anymore; he only cares for protecting and preserving those who do not deserve such shelter. And Javert cannot stand for that when he’s spent his life guarding those who are worthy, those who do not break the law.

Valjean shields people like Enjolras, who threatened the security of a nation along with his comrades and like-minded men across Paris.

The faces Javert sees through the glass melt together in his mind, until he can no longer tell one from the other.

But that doesn’t matter.

Javert can taste victory.

* * *

 

“I won!” Gavroche cries out, looking at the backgammon board almost in surprise. Valjean smiles fully in return.

“Indeed you did,” Valjean says. ”Tres bien, an excellent game, Master Gavroche.”

Gavroche’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “You let me win, didn’t you?” He asks, affronted.

“I did not. I assure you. What would be the point in that, how would you learn?”

Enjolras smiles as he watches Gavroche set up the game again, chattering excitedly about the moves he made. He wonders how much Gavroche can read; he certainly has a keen mind, and he used to carry messages for them all from time to time, but Enjolras is unsure whether he’d ever discerned the full contents or meaning in the words he bore.

Enjolras has sufficiently regained strength following his overexertion a few days ago to convince Combeferre to let him out of bed today, although both he and Grantaire stay reassuringly close, they all stay close like a protective barrier around their chief. He rests in an armchair which has somehow become branded as his, bad leg propped up on an ottoman, watching Gavroche learning backgammon against Valjean. The older man is utterly absorbed, delight flashing in his eyes each time Gavroche bests him, though his lips merely quirk into a small, satisfied smile.

It is a pleasant scene, and Enjolras almost dares relax.

Almost.

No one gives it a second thought when Grantaire gets up to answer the door when they hear the firm knock; since Madame Bellard and Toussaint have gone into Avignon to pick up some household supplies, Grantaire volunteers. Valjean doesn’t initially react when he sees Grantaire stride out of the room, and then suddenly fear appears in his eyes, a fear of which Enjolras doesn’t at first understand the root.

Not until he hears the voice. He’s only heard it on one night of his life, but he’ll never forget. His body tenses automatically, the muscles contracting painfully.

_“Shoot me now or shoot me later, every school boy to his sport! Death to each and every traitor! I renounce your people’s court!”_

_“You are a spy?”_

_“I am an officer of the government.”_

“Out of my way.”

Inspector Javert.

Valjean bolts toward the door like a shot, nearly toppling over the game of backgammon. Before the rest of them rush out after him, Enjolras tugs on Combeferre’s hand, pulling him close and whispering in his ear.

“Whatever happens, protect the others,” he says. “They’ll listen to you.”

“Enjolras…”

“Please, Combeferre,” Enjolras interrupts, a very rare pleading in his voice. “Keep them safe. You have to keep them all safe. Promise me. I know it’s pained you ever since I asked, but _please_. It’s vital.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre tries again, desperate. “I…”

“You have to be willing to let me go,” Enjolras whispers, unable to drown the emotion in his voice, because he knows how much this hurts Combeferre, knows how he would feel had Combeferre asked this of him, knows watching Javert drag Combeferre or any of the others off in manacles would rip his very soul from him, all those overwhelming feelings he never quite knows what to do with spilled forth and laid bare.

But that’s also the very reason he has to do this, because Javert will not leave this house without him, and he cannot have his friends hurt protecting him, not when they could live, when they could be free, could make others free.

Combeferre hesitates for a moment: Enjolras sees pure, unadulterated terror in his eyes, terror of losing Enjolras himself, mixing with a strange concoction of sadness, pain, and resolve.

“I promise to keep the others safe,” Combeferre says, squeezing his hand so tightly as if he’s committing the feeling to memory. “I swear to you.”

He does not swear to let Enjolras go.

Enjolras lays a hand on Combeferre’s cheek, allowing himself a mere moment before they go in behind Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Gavroche, Marius, and Cosette just in time to see Javert shove Grantaire to the floor, and Valjean pushing the door against Javert.

But to no avail.

In what seems like an out of body experience, Enjolras watches Javert slam his truncheon directly against Valjean’s chest and knocking the breath from his lungs. Valjean steps forward again, but Javert holds the truncheon under his chin in warning as the ex-convict breathes hard, raising his eyes up to meet his attacker, and there’s an anger within them that Enjolras hadn’t thought Valjean capable of, a flash perhaps, of the man he’d been before encountering the kindly bishop of whom he’s spoken. Their rescuer is absolutely the stronger man, but he stays where is out of concern Javert will harm someone else. The mere presence of these two men is truly something to behold; Valjean broad-shouldered, tall, and muscular, looking very much as he could lift everyone in this room without breaking a sweat, and Javert just as tall, dressed head to toe in black, long, greying hair falling loose from its neat tail and framing his face, eyes mad with intensity.

“I see you finally know your place, 24601,” Javert says, surveying Valjean’s face with a fiery malice, fury etched into his features. But a marked panic gleams within his eyes when he looks at Valjean, a conflict storming behind them. “You were a fool to think you could hide them from me. Do not even try to beg for mercy on their behalf.”

Javert looks up, eyes landing on each of them (although his eyes fail to meet Cosette’s) before fixing his gaze on Enjolras.

“You trusted this old fraud and fell right into my hands,” he says, releasing Valjean, and out of the corner of his eye Enjolras sees Feuilly silently helping up a dazed Grantaire. “Time to extinguish your flame, Enjolras.”

“Extinguish _my_ flame all you like inspector,” Enjolras says, meeting the man’s gaze head on. “You will not extinguish the flame of revolution, of freedom. Of the light of the future.”

In a quick and calculated motion, Javert’s hand grasps Enjolras’ shirt and twists, the fabric tight against his throat and very nearly cutting off his air supply. Javert seizes him so abruptly that Enjolras stumbles, hand grasping his cane in order that he doesn’t fall to the floor in front of this man, in front of his friends.

“You do not mock the _law_ , boy,” he seethes. “You do not mock _me_. Don’t you know only death awaits you? Barring that you’ll face the galleys, and I’m sure Valjean could tell you stories about the horrors awaiting you there. It’s the hell where freedom goes to die, if it ever existed in the first place.”

“If you take him, you take all of us,” Courfeyrac growls, eyes narrowed in a most frightening manner, a manner which Enjolras has never witnessed.

“All of us or none of us,” Feuilly agrees, his usually soft voice rough and harsh with anger, fists clenching at his sides.

“You won’t take him,” Grantaire joins in, an alarming danger emanating off his body, and Enjolras fears Grantaire might just do something rash. “We won’t allow it. I won’t allow it.”

Marius too, looks infuriated, Cosette’s hand resting on his arm as if holding him back. One of Marius’ hands rests over his wound almost out of instinct, and Valjean physically holds Gavroche back. Javert momentarily lets go of Enjolras, holding out his truncheon and curving it around in a semi-circle at all of them; it’s not a threat, it’s a promise.

“One of you touches me, one of you tries to stop me,” he says, voice hard as steel. “You will regret it. Your _precious_ leader is a symbol of your failed revolution, and he will pay. And when he pays, _all_ of you pay. Less bloodshed, but still all the impact. He can join Jeanne and Geoffrey in their punishments.”

“It is not such a failure if the king is so worried about stamping out the insurgent leaders, is it?” Combeferre asks, seemingly unable to stop himself, his voice maintaining a calm that creates a strangely peaceful feeling inside Enjolras, a feeling bolstering his determination, his courage against the frantic beating of his heart.

“He is not a symbol, Javert,” Valjean says, side-stepping cautiously so that he partially blocks Cosette. “He is a flesh and blood young man. And so help me God, you will _not_ take him. You will not harm _any_ of them.”

Enjolras’ heart jumps into his throat when he hears Valjean’s words, even as immense gratitude spreads through him. He cannot allow Valjean to defend him, cannot allow him to put himself in danger, not when Cosette needs him and loves him so dearly; he is the only parent she’s ever known, and he cannot take that away from her. Valjean is also the sole reason any of them are alive right now, and without him Enjolras doesn’t know what will happen to his remaining friends, and they must _live_. They must live for themselves, must live so that the cause that forged their bonds will continue on, fueled by the memories of those who died into the tomb of the glorious flame of the future.

And Valjean has suffered enough.

Enjolras glances quickly at Combeferre, silently reminding him of his promise, stomach twisting into tangled knots. There is so much they can say to each other without words, and now Combeferre’s wise hazel eyes bore into his.

 _I will go with you_. _I will share your fate._

Enjolras returns his gaze, his own eyes electrified with the need to protect his friends, to do his duty.

 _I know_. _But the others need you._

Combeferre nods, understanding, hating it, but he sees Enjolras’ line of reasoning and he will obey this silent imploration, but to Enjolras’ eyes, it visibly rips him apart _._

 _I am their leader_ , Enjolras thinks to himself. _And it is my job to protect them_. _To shield them when I am able. And this is my chance. I knew from the moment I thought of revolution this might be the price I paid._

Enjolras offers his free hand to Javert, holding it out in front of him like a sacrifice.

“If you swear to leave Monsieur Valjean, Cosette, and Gavroche alone, if you swear you won’t touch any of my comrades,” Enjolras says, looking Javert straight in the eyes, voice completely steady. “Then I will go with you willingly. You have a job to do, after all.”

Javert stares at him, eyes widening slightly before regaining the iron-clad purpose within them.

“Hands,” Javert says coldly. “Both of them.”

“He can’t give you both of them,” Combeferre protests. “Please. He can’t walk without his cane, his wound…”

“Won’t matter for much longer, I am certain,” Javert says, pushing Combeferre back as he approaches, preventing him from even touching Enjolras. “And a cane is a weapon. Release it, Enjolras. You are under arrest for high treason against His Majesty King Louis-Phillipe of France.”

Enjolras keeps his eyes fixed on Javert because he cannot look at his friends, cannot look at Valjean, at Cosette, at Gavroche. He lets go of the cane, hearing it clatter to the floor with an ominous echo, and stands up straight, offering both hands. Javert kicks it away, pulling Enjolras by his wrists, a vicious pain shooting through his leg at the sudden movement, his shoulder throbbing from being dragged forward. Javert removes the manacles from his belt and locks them around Enjolras’ wrists, the metal shockingly cold against his skin.

The minute they lock into place, the room erupts in sound.

“You can’t!” Courfeyrac exclaims, taking a single step forward. “You take Enjolras you take all of us, inspector. We were all there, we were all involved. Heavily involved.”

“Those aren’t my orders, boy,” Javert says, moving to stand toe to toe with Courfeyrac. “Back. Down.”

Courfeyrac however, doesn’t move an inch, and when Javert smacks him in the stomach with the truncheon, Enjolras feels the pain himself. Courfeyrac runs at Javert, but Combeferre grabs him, holding him back as he doubles over from the blow.

“Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac, _no_ ,” Enjolras hears Combeferre whisper, grabbing his friend by both arms.

“And were your orders to let me go with Valjean when you came across us?” Marius pipes up, Cosette’s hand still resting very firmly in his own. “Was that you following the law? Leave Enjolras be, just let us _be_!”

“We are all culpable,” Feuilly says, stepping forward now, before Combeferre, his hands full with a struggling Courfeyrac, can stop him. “We belong _together_ whether that’s here or in prison. What is one rebel leader to you, what does it matter?”

Enjolras’s heart skips a beat when he sees Javert whip out the pistol from his belt, pointing it directly at Feuilly, who doesn’t blink, eyes sealed on the policeman.

It’s then when Grantaire steps forward in front of Feuilly, directly in the gun’s path. He looks terrified, inhaling air in short breaths.

“You can’t take him,” Grantaire says, voice rough with unshed tears. “I won’t _let_ you.”

“You defy me?” Javert asks, bold. “As you wish.”

He turns quick as lightning back toward Enjolras.

“On your knees,” he hisses. “ _Now_.”

Enjolras hates it, despises it with every ounce of his being, but he drops, a thunderous pain running through his leg. And then suddenly he feels the cold, cruel edge of the pistol jammed against his temple, Javert’s hand grasping the top of his jacket.

“One more move from any of you,” he says, digging the gun hard into Enjolras’ skull and glaring at Grantaire. “And I spill his blood right here, in front of all of you. And then I take his body back to Paris, where its display will discourage any further rebellion, will crush any spark you set in those people you claim to care about so much. Those people who did not rise with you. My superiors want him alive, but they’ll understand I had to do my duty if the lot of you didn’t cooperate.”

There’s an audible gasp from Combeferre, but then he regains control of his faculties, voice hoarse with anxiety.

“Grantaire, back up,” he orders, still gentle somehow, but urgent, removing one hand from Courfeyrac and pulling Grantaire toward him. “Back _up_.”

The mere sight of Enjolras with a gun to his head, the thought of his blood spilling onto the floor right here, is enough for Combeferre’s voice to have an effect on Grantaire, a petrified expression overcoming his face as he steps back.

Enjolras sees Valjean move Gavroche into Feuilly’s arms, just barely edging away from his place shielding Cosette, eyes locked on Javert.

“Put the gun away Javert,” he says, a forced calm in his tone. “Just put it away.”

Javert does, hauling Enjolras back up to his feet with another straight shot of pain.

“We’re going,” Javert says, a note of finality ringing in his voice.

They’re almost to the door when a single voice fills the room.

“You’re a coward!” Gavroche shouts fighting against Feuilly’s grasp, but he cannot quite free himself. “A bloody, spineless _coward_.”

“Inspector please.” It’s Cosette now, speaking, pleading for the first time. “Just let Enjolras go. You were so kind to me that night on the bridge, I… _please_.”

Enjolras doesn’t miss the barest flicker of regret in Javert’s eyes at Cosette’s words, but as soon as he looks back and forth between Valjean and Enjolras again, the hard, unforgiving glint returns.

Then everyone starts shouting, specific voices drowned out in the tumult, and Enjolras’ fingers push so hard into his palms that there are fingernail indentations in his skin.

They cannot do this, they cannot do this or Javert will shoot them all on the spot, will arrest them.

He can’t let that happen.

“Enough!” he shouts, his voice overcoming all the rest, even Valjean’s.  “ _Enough_.”

His face is turned away from them, but no one misses the words, even amongst the din of noise. He’s capable of bringing silence over a room, that much is clear. It’s harsh, he knows, but they have to _stop_ , and he is the only one capable of making them.

The room goes deadly silent in a moment, and Enjolras stares at the floor, a single tear sliding down his cheek.

His friends don’t see.

Valjean doesn’t see.

But he knows Javert does, can feel the inspector’s eyes on him.

“As I said, we’re going,” Javert says again. “We leave for Paris in the morning, boy,” he continues lowering his voice. “I hope you’ll enjoy your night in the Avignon jail.”

Javert opens the door and Enjolras does not look back because it will kill him, he’s certain, only hears Valjean’s voice once more, broken as shattered glass, but he’s trapped, because if he makes one misstep trying to save Enjolras, it may mean the potential loss of them all.

“Javert,” the older man tries one more time. “Please.”

The inspector doesn’t respond, pushing Enjolras out in front of him. There’s a scuffle, the sounds of Combeferre and Courfeyrac holding Grantaire back, the sound of Combeferre’s barely restrained sob as he tries reasoning with Grantaire.

The door slams shut behind them, the sound of Grantaire _screaming_ his name ringing in Enjolras’ ears.

He won’t ever forget that sound, that awful, agonizing sound.

But he keeps walking, trying not to limp even though excruciating pain seizes every inch of his leg, because he will show as little weakness to this man as possible, because now that his friends are out of direct danger, Enjolras fears nothing.

Especially not Javert.

Soon they are in the carriage, Enjolras’ leg throbbing wildly, and Javert signals to the driver. Enjolras sits across from Javert, feeling helpless with his arms manacled in front of him, useless. The silence between them lays thick, tense, and solid, but Enjolras senses Javert has words for him, senses a strange sort of struggle within the man; he’s chased Valjean for years and yet now leaves him free, nearly jumped off a bridge, so Cosette told them all, and yet here he is, still on the job. Something in Javert’s mind broke that night, Enjolras thinks, and he can see it brimming in the man’s eyes.

“You were foolish to think I wouldn’t find you,” Javert finally says. “Valjean falters in his old age.”

“Is that why you left him alone?” Enjolras asks, treading carefully, because he doesn’t want Javert changing his mind and going back for Valjean.

“It’s none of your business why I left him,” Javert says, unmoved, but Enjolras doesn’t miss the flash of disquiet in the policeman’s expression. “You should be concerned about your own fate at the moment. So it would serve you best to be quiet.”

But Enjolras won’t be silenced.

“Have you ever read Rousseau’s Social Contract, inspector?” he asks. “Do you even know the basis of what we were fighting for?”

“I have no appreciation for books, but I read because I must,” Javert answers, eyes narrowing. “So yes, I have read your precious Social Contract in order that I might know how to better guard this existing society from the likes of you.”

“So you will remember the passage,” Enjolras continues, “that says ‘the people, being subject to the laws, ought to be their author; the conditions of the society ought to be regulated solely by those who come together to form it?’ How can you not agree with that as someone who claims to practically worship the law?”

“You naïve, privileged _idiot_ ,” Javert laughs, the sound escaping him similar to a barking dog. “You cannot trust the people to make laws just as you cannot trust them to obey them. Because so many of these people you fight for? They are dishonest scum. Criminals without an ounce of good or justice in them. But you high and mighty students, you think you know about this world, about the people in it…”

“We are not all students,” Enjolras interrupts, feeling the rage building within him. “There are workers among us, people who have suffered things I can only imagine, and they stand alongside us for that better world because they have seen the horrors and the dishonesty you mention first hand. But they still fight, they still believe in the good of humanity. And we might be students, we might not have been raised in that world, but we have learned about it, have gone down into it, because those people are just as human as anyone else. It takes a varied group of citizens to create laws that serve everyone, not just a king with a constitution he doesn’t follow. That is not the voice of the people.”

“Again with the people!” Javert snarls, wolf-like, and Enjolras notices the man’s self-controls slipping with every second. “Let me tell you something about those poor, _oppressed_ people your friends on the barricade died for, Enjolras; most of them will cheat you as soon as look at you, and they must be dealt with by the firm hand of justice. You say they steal because they are poor, because the government doesn’t help them, that the wealthy landowners don’t care. Well, I was born into that very world, to parents from the gutter, and I needed no one’s help, especially not from some idealistic fools on a barricade. Those people will not rise for you, for some ridiculous dream of freedom.”

“They have risen before and induced change,” Enjolras argues. “Or did you miss the French Revolution? Or the July Rebellion just two years ago? These people need _help_ , all across the world they need help,” he says, thinking of Feuilly and his passion for the well-being of nations aside from just his own France. “It is against divine and natural law for one man to rule exclusively over many. The formation of a republic worked in America; they fought for their independence from King George, and they _won_. They have elected officials who are voted in by the people themselves.”

“You think yourself aware of the goings on in other countries, do you?” Javert says, the mocking clear in his tone. “America is but a child of a nation; that republic will fall and it will fail, you mark my words.”

“I know a great deal about the American Revolutionary War,” Enjolras bites back. “My maternal grandmother was an American colonist who moved here after she married a French soldier. And it will _not_ fail. It might falter, but it will not fail.”

“It will, because allowing people, allowing the dregs that make up the majority of humanity to have power, makes that inevitable,” Javert says, hands grasping his own knees in ire. “These people need to learn to obey the law. They need to learn their _place_. But they won’t. You should let go of your pathetic dream. ”

“There is not a single ill-doer who could not be turned to some good,” Enjolras says, reciting Rousseau once more, frustrated with Javert’s refusal to listen even the tiniest fraction. “’In a well-governed State there are few punishments not because there are many pardons, but because criminals are rare.’ How can you expect to bring about justice, inspector, when France decays before your eyes?”

“You are blind,” Javert snaps, temper rising, hair nearly crackling with his rage. “And you know nothing of the world or how it works. Now quiet! I don’t want to hear any more of this ridiculous nonsense.”

“I know more than you think,” Enjolras persists, very conscious of the blood pumping through his veins. “You guard this corrupt society with its corrupt government and corrupt laws because you…”

“Silence, you God-forsaken brat!” Javert shouts. “You will regret one more word, I promise you.”

“…are afraid to be a part of that society,” Enjolras says, voice still even, still firm. “Are afraid to admit that maybe you could have used help from some ‘idealistic fools’, fools who would have helped create a country where it might not have been so hard for a child like you. And that’s why you chased Valjean for all these years, because you couldn’t stand seeing your black and white views born out of self-hatred thwarted in a man who was a poor criminal turned into a kind, merciful servant of the people. That’s why you were so desperate to arrest me, because I fight for everything he represents and everything you despise, and yet you can no longer bring yourself to arrest him because deep inside you know he’s right. You know I’m right.”

The hard, stinging slap across his face stuns Enjolras, the ring Javert wears on his right hand leaving what he’s sure will turn into a bruise. Javert is a large man and the force of the blow sends Enjolras reeling against the side of the carriage, the sudden pain in his cheek reminding him of another slap he’d received on behalf of his beliefs, on behalf of this cause.

The slap that came from his father the last time he’d laid eyes on him, a blow bestowed by a man who had never once shown a penchant for physical violence until that moment.

Out of reflex he raises a hand to touch his cheek, wincing at the tingling feeling of needles pricking his skin. He regains his composure quickly however, looking back at Javert with a gaze that could burn holes into the other man’s skin.

“I arrested you because those were my _orders_ ,” Javert says, breathing hard, a thunderstorm of unchecked wrath raging in his eyes. “And my _duty_. And because I detest anything to do with the _word_ rebellion.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer for a moment, hearing Combeferre’s voice in his head, the voice telling him to back off, to save himself anymore physical hurt, anymore danger.

So when he speaks again, it’s with a tempered tone.

But he speaks nevertheless.

“Man is born free and yet everywhere he is in chains,” Enjolras says, repeating the Rousseau he knows so well, that one sentence that lit the flame in him, the flame that will never stop burning. “And that’s your trouble, inspector, the difference between you and me; I am willing to break the laws of this country in order to help better it, but you are content to live within the limitations of a monarchy because doing otherwise would mean infringing upon the law. You refuse to acknowledge those chains your views create for you. And until you do that, you will never be free.”

Javert leans in until they are almost nose to nose, and just for a moment, Enjolras feels the power of the man’s intimidation.

“I do believe it is you who will never be free,” he taunts, voice soft and dangerous. “Because for you, there is no _life about to start when tomorrow comes_. You are done, Enjolras. And so is everything you fought for.”

“You are wrong,” Enjolras says, almost whispering now. “And you always have been.”

An odd look passes across Javert’s features at his words, and they fall into silence for the remaining five minute distance to the jail. Enjolras cannot step out of the carriage on his own with manacled hands and a bad leg without falling into the dirt, forcing Javert to help him down, seizing his elbow tighter than necessary and allowing him to lean on his arm for the shortest of moments. But even with the assistance, without his cane walking causes sharp pains with every step. Javert still grips his elbow but moves as far away as possible while still maintaining his grasp. This must be a small holding jail, Enjolras thinks, a temporary prison until they send the accused to one of the larger prisons in Avignon proper.

Or in his case, to Paris.

They enter the front door, and Enjolras sees two cells and what looks like an office, one guard sitting inside, eyes flitting instantly toward Enjolras.

“Find who you were looking for inspector?” he asks.

“Yes,” Javert answers crisply. “Which cell, sergeant?”

“That one works fine,” the other man responds, jabbing his thumb at the cell nearest the wall. “Do you need me to check on the house where you found him? On anyone living there?”

“No,” Javert says. “It’s taken care of. And we’ll be out of your hair in the morning; I couldn’t get another stagecoach to Paris any sooner than that.”

He takes the offered keys from the officer, pulling Enjolras along and into the cell, the door slamming shut with an echoing clang.

But the rusty key scraping in the lock sounds a thousand times worse.

“Hands,” Javert says again, stoic once more.

Enjolras obeys, putting his chained hands through the bars, watching Javert unlock them, and instinctively reaching up to rub the raw skin on his wrists once they’re free.

“You can go and rest up if you like inspector,” the other officer says. “I can watch him for a while. Doesn’t look like much, anyway.”

“Thank you,” Javert says, eyes meeting Enjolras’ own. “But I’ll keep watch on him tonight…he’s more than he seems, believe me.” He reaches up, rubbing the back of his head almost without realizing it, then turns away, leaving Enjolras alone.

Enjolras gazes around the small cell, exhaustion overcoming him swiftly and without warning, but he knows he cannot sleep now, so instead he lays down on the wooden structure he supposes must serve as a cot, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of his friends, Combeferre’s restrained sob, Grantaire’s scream, Courfeyrac’s emotion-ridden anger, Feuilly’s pledge that they should always be together, Marius’ pleading, Gavroche’s shout. He pushes away bright-colored images of them running headlong into the prison, shackled and thrown into his cell.

But they are safe now, and that’s what’s important, even if they are without him, safe to continue the cause that created their bonds.

Safe with Valjean and Cosette.

Safe with each other.

Safe to live on.

And right now, though he aches for missing them already, aches for missing their friends who died, he contents himself with that knowledge, holding fast to the sounds of their laughter that last night in the Café Musain.

 

 


	21. The Darkest Night

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

Chapter 21: The Darkest Night

Combeferre can’t _breathe_.

But he _has_ to breathe.

He promised Enjolras he would be there for the others, he swore…

He swore…

The pain in his chest grows sharp, the very edge of a knife twisting deep within, and every time he breathes a rush of agony stab through him. It’s as if the very likely loss of Enjolras multiplies the pain of all the friends they’ve already lost, as if it fully ripped open the wound of his grief. The tiniest sliver of hope bubbles in his chest, the hope that they can save Enjolras somehow, but the grief, the terror, threatens it with every passing second.

Enjolras…

He can barely even _think_ his best friend’s name right now, it hurts so badly.

Valjean went upstairs and into the study mere minutes after Javert dragged Enjolras out, an power in his eyes Combeferre has never seen before, bidding them not to leave the house under any circumstance, that he needed a bit to think of a way to get Enjolras back, of a way to still keep them all safe once he executes his plan; he’s going to the jail at daybreak when he believes the guard will be lowest, when he hopes he’ll find Javert alone.

Find Javert alone before he departs for Paris with Enjolras in tow.

But convincing, tricking, or escaping from Javert remains the problem.

And so Combeferre sits on the sofa.

He sits on the sofa and tries to breathe.

He doesn’t realize how stuck in his head he is until he feels Courfeyrac’s familiar touch on his face, turning it toward him.

“Combeferre,” his friend says softly, eyes rimmed red from unabashed tears, while Combeferre’s eyes are still dry because somehow tears evade him, shock choking that particular human emotion. “Combeferre you aren’t breathing properly. Exhale, my friend, exhale, please, you’ve got to.”

“I’m…” Combeferre says, swallowing the taste of a lie on his lips; there’s no point in protesting he’s fine because how on earth would they ever believe him?

He wants to do something but he doesn’t know _how_ , doesn’t know _what_.

Courfeyrac takes his hands, rubbing circles into the skin, and a rush of hot, unbridled affection for Courfeyrac overcomes him. Combeferre looks up, watching Feuilly try and whisper words of some kind of comfort to Grantaire, whose eyes are wide and staring as if he’s looking at nothing.

Cosette sits next to Gavroche, an arm around the little boy who looks as if he’s in shock; Combeferre’s never seen Cosette so anxious, and that’s saying quite a bit, considering all that’s happened since they emerged in her life.

“Grantaire,” Feuilly says, crouched down in front Grantaire’s chair. “It’s…it’s not alright, I won’t even say that because it’s the furthest thing from the truth, but just talk, talk if that helps. God, your hands are trembling.”

“I haven’t had…” Grantaire says through gritted teeth, accepting Feuilly’s hands when he offers them. “…had a drink aside from one glass of wine at each dinner in four days. I’m trying to…cut back. Just some slight withdrawal, it… doesn’t matter…what about Enjolras?”

“You’re sweating, too,” Feuilly mutters, his voice cracking at the sound of Enjolras’ name, quite unable to contain his emotion, and Combeferre sees the mild panic pooled in the fan-maker’s eyes.

Combeferre feels a hand wring his heart, because Feuilly’s second family, the only family he’s had since he lost his parents as a child, dwindles by the day.

“It doesn’t matter,” Grantaire says again, pulling Feuilly’s hands closer. “Feuilly, what are we going…Enjolras…” his words trail off, incoherent, desperate, and tinged with panic, the light in his eyes almost wholly extinguished.

“It does matter, Grantaire,” Combeferre whispers, concentrating on the feel of Courfeyrac’s fingers moving on the skin of his hands, because otherwise he very much feels as if he’ll be sick, but he latches on to this chance to free his psyche for a moment, something else he can focus on apart from the memory of watching Enjolras’ face hardening into marble against his current of feeling, even as passionate, almost terrifying emotion flashed in his blue eyes. Combeferre cannot stop hearing Enjolras’ voice ring through the room.

_Enough._

“It matters that you take care of yourself, that we take care of each other,” Combeferre says, fighting the unsteadiness of his voice. “It’s what Enjolras wanted.”

“What he wants, you mean,” Courfeyrac corrects, but he’s tender still. He ceases rubbing circles into Combeferre’s skin, instead pulling both hands up and interlacing his fingers with Combeferre’s own.“He’s not lost to us just yet, Combeferre. We do not give up. I…I cannot.”

“Courfeyrac is right,” Marius says, finally speaking, which draws Cosette’s attention away from her pacing, and she comes over, joining them. “Valjean may yet come up with a plan to thwart Javert.”

“He will,” Cosette says, almost unconsciously taking Marius’ hand. “I know my Papa, and he will. But I also know he will not want any of you following him, won’t want any of you in danger.”

“If any of us are harmed it would be an insult to Enjolras’ sacrifice,” Combeferre says, sensing something in Marius and Cosette’s tones.

“We must follow Valjean when he goes,” Marius says, firm. It is not a tone Marius uses often, but Combeferre can’t help but remember him at the barricade, torch in hand, voice thundering over the whole area, nearly as formidable as Enjolras, at least for a moment.

_Be off with you, or I’ll blow up the barricade!_

Crises are apparently well-suited for quick, resolute thinking on Marius’, part, but Combeferre cannot allow this, cannot stop hearing Enjolras’ voice again in his head.

“I know it has pained you ever since I asked, but it is vital. Promise me.”

“Not directly,” Marius continues, determined. “We wait however long we think best, and then we go gage the situation.”

“No, Marius,” Combeferre says, sounding more intense that he means to, so he softens his voice at Marius’ surprised expression. “We cannot go after Valjean, I cannot allow any of you to get hurt, especially not in wake of Enjolras’ sacrifice. I _cannot._ ”

“Combeferre,” Marius says, frustrated, desperate. “We cannot leave Enjolras behind. We cannot let him go.”

Tears finally prick Combeferre’s eyes and he feels a few spill down his cheeks. In the same moment Courfeyrac’s hands are on his face, turning it toward him.

_You have to be willing to let me go._

Combeferre doesn’t just feel sick now; he’s going to be sick, he’s certain. He gulps in a breath, telling himself to calm down, that this is just his psyche’s reaction to an intensely traumatic situation, that he must maintain strength for the others.

Only his body won’t cooperate.

But Courfeyrac, ever in tune with people, notices. He seizes an empty vase, and puts it under Combeferre’s chin just in time. Courfeyrac’s hand rests on Combeferre’s back now, and it relaxes him. Combeferre flushes in embarrassment, but it’s irrational, he knows; one can’t help their body revolting against them. Once it’s clear he won’t be sick again, Courfeyrac moves around, facing him.

“Enjolras asked you to protect the rest of us,” Courfeyrac says, and it isn’t a question, the puzzle pieces coming together behind his eyes. “And that’s why you didn’t try and go after Javert. He asked you to let him go.”

“I…” Combeferre tries, but Courfeyrac already knows the answer, so he doesn’t even bother with a lie. “At first I did not agree with him, but the moment Javert walked in that door I saw his line of reasoning, I couldn’t deny him Courfeyrac, Javert was…he was utterly unhinged. Enjolras was right, Javert would have hurt or arrested every last one of us if Enjolras didn’t hand himself over…I…”

“It’s alright,” Courfeyrac says, resting his forehead against Combeferre’s, exuding the emotional strength Combeferre and Enjolras always heartily appreciated; he centers them. “I trust the both of you without question and I understand why both of you did what you did. I expect we all do. But I’m also inclined to agree with Marius in this instance; following Valjean is different than accosting Javert in this house would have been; we’ve run from gendarmes, been in rallies accidentally turned riots…I believe we can attempt this.”

“But I…” Combeferre starts.

“Promised Enjolras, I know. And I would not have you break that promise,” Courfeyrac says, patient as Combeferre usually is. “But it would be my guess that you only submitted to one part of that promise; protecting us, which you are capable of doing even while we follow Valjean. I cannot imagine a day when you would promise to let Enjolras go.”

Combeferre emits a strange half laugh, half sob the he cannot control, sounding hysterical to his own ears, feeling Courfeyrac squeeze his hands, still not releasing them.

 Courfeyrac discovered a loophole in his promise to Enjolras, because of course he did, he’s a lawyer. Cosette kneels down in front of him, eyes full to bursting with compassion, and for the first time, Combeferre thinks that her facial features are so similar to Enjolras’ that she could very well be his sister.

“You can keep your promise to Enjolras and still keep us all safe,” she says, putting a gentle hand on the side of his face, which ever so slightly eases the feeling that he’s being torn in two. “I know you don’t want to betray that promise, Combeferre, we all do, all know how much it means to you, how much Enjolras means to you. But I also know you want to save him so badly, I see it in every inch of you. I suspect everyone here will follow your word on this so that you may do both.”

Combeferre nods, squeezing her shoulder and looking back up at Marius, at all of them.

“If we do this,” he says, serious. “Then all of you must listen to me. If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you hide. I want to save Enjolras more than anything, but I will also not let his sacrifice go to waste.”

“We will,” Feuilly answers, and Grantaire nods his agreement along with Courfeyrac and Marius. “Whatever you say, we will follow.”

Combeferre smiles at Feuilly, then his gaze rests on Marius for a moment, eyes running down to the wounded area on his abdomen. “I am incredibly thankful for your idea and your clear-headedness in this situation,” he continues, sincere. “But you cannot go with us.”

“What?” Marius questions, a bit indignant.

“You are injured,” Combeferre says quietly. “You cannot run, and you cannot hold up well against further injury should Javert see us. Your presence creates danger for both Enjolras and yourself. And I would not see you hurt again, Marius, especially not when you are still recovering.”

“But…”

“He’s right, Marius,” Cosette interrupts. “I hadn’t thought about it with all of this going on, but he’s right.”

“I want to help,” Marius persists. “All of you were my friends when my grandfather and I were estranged, when I had no one else in the world. I want to help.”

“You have,” Combeferre says, grasping the younger man’s hand tightly. “You have helped rally us again. Helped rally me.”

Marius sighs but then nods, squeezing Combeferre’s hand with the tiniest of smiles, and then Combeferre looks at Cosette, who looks as if she already knows his words.

“Cosette, I would take you with us, but your father…he would never recover if something happened to you,” Combeferre says. “And I’m sure Marius could use your company while we’re gone.”

“I do not believe Inspector Javert would hurt me intentionally, though I am not sure why,” she says. “But I take your point Combeferre; he is out of his mind, I saw it in his eyes. I will stay here with Marius. And then hopefully mollify Papa when all of you return, because he will not be pleased that you put yourself in danger, but I also believe it’s time he learned he is not alone anymore.”

Combeferre smiles at Cosette, this courageous, intelligent, open-hearted young woman he now certainly counts as his friend. He’s shaky still, but the eternal hope Enjolras always instilled in him takes root as his comrades, his family, gather closer around him and talk through the details of their plans.

Except none of them notice their youngest comrade, one of the bravest among them, slip out of the drawing room.

* * *

 

Gavroche is only alone in the small parlor down the hall from the drawing for a few moments before someone enters the room.

It’s Cosette.

“Gavroche are you alright, sweetheart?” she asks. “You left the room.”

Normally Gavroche wouldn’t put up with such endearments, but he likes Cosette, she's sweet, doesn’t treat him like he’s a silly kid, and sneaks him pastries when Toussaint and Madame Bellard aren't looking.

“I’m worried ‘bout Enjolras,” Gavroche mumbles. “Why did he go? Why didn't he fight? Why didn't they all fight? Enjolras never gives up.”

Cosette drops down to Gavroche's level, kneeling on the floor before the sofa he's tentatively perched on; he's still uncomfortable with the formality and luxury of indoor life, which is evident in his posture. Cosette wipes his face with her handkerchief and Gavroche sniffs, smiling.

"Enjolras didn't have a choice, Gavroche. He was protecting us all. Inspector Javert is…he's not...well. He believes arresting Enjolras will right some wrongs in his own life. He's dangerous, Gavroche, and he might have shot Feuilly, or Enjolras, or any of us, and Enjolras would never, could never allow that. It's just who he is."

 "Enjolras is brave," Gavroche says quietly. “But Inspector Javert is a bully, never cut us gamins a break.”

 Cosette smiles, "Enjolras is the bravest. But he was afraid too, afraid for all of us. Bravery isn't the lack of fear, it's how you react to the fear, what you choose to do with it. Does that make sense?”

 Gavroche nods, understanding. "But why did the others let him go...Javert was outnumbered, we could have got the gun from him, and I’ve seen Grantaire win a fist fight! Why...why did...why didn't Combeferre do something, why did he stop Courfeyrac and Feuilly? Combeferre can do anything! You should all them books he reads Cosette, I’ve never seen so many books, and he’s Enjolras’ best friend."

“Oh, Gavroche, he did do something,” Cosette answers, stroking some of the frustrated tears away from his eyes with her thumbs “He did the bravest thing anyone could have done, just as brave as Enjolras himself. Enjolras asked him to protect all of us, no matter the cost, and that meant letting Enjolras go."

“Or Javert would have hurt Courfeyrac, or Feuilly or Grantaire or Marius?” Gavroche asks.

“Most likely,” Cosette answers sadly. “Or arrested them.”

Gavroche takes a shaky breath and wipes his face with his cuffs. "We have to get him back."

"Yes, we do. And we will. But Combeferre gave Enjolras his word, and he won't endanger any of you lightly, and I think he could use some support right now, so he knows he can protect the rest of us and get Enjolras back."

Gavroche nods, pushes himself up off the sofa, holding his arm out to Cosette as the older boys do, and she smiles, accepting.

"I'm trying to be brave,” Gavroche tells her. “I'm as brave as Combeferre and Enjolras and I can do hard things too, I used to run errands all the time, and Enjolras even let me have a rifle at the barricade. I'll do whatever Combeferre asks."

He leads her from the parlor and back into the drawing room where Marius, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Grantaire still look lost and bereft, like a body missing a limb. 

A group missing its most beloved chief.

Their soul.

Combeferre is calmer now, but still pale and visibly shaking, as is Grantaire.

Gavroche releases Cosette's arms and goes directly to Combeferre, standing in front of him for a moment before putting his arms around Combeferre’s neck. When he pulls back he stands up straight, looking Combeferre in the eye.

"I want to help." he says gravely. “I’ll do anything you need, I promise, anything to help get Enjolras back.”

Combeferre’s lips quirk upward ever so much; he is touched and can only pull Gavroche back into his arms again.

"Thank you, Gavroche." He murmurs into his ear. "Thank you."

And so they wait for Valjean’s departure.

Wait for daybreak

* * *

 

A ruckus from the entrance of the prison shocks Enjolras from his thoughts, so deep and involved he’d almost forgotten where he was.

If only.

Dear _God_ if only he could banish the sound of Combeferre’s bitten back sob, of Grantaire’s agony ridden scream, his name echoing through the air with a searing pain. Nor can he forget Gavroche’s tear-ridden shout, cannot forget the uncontrolled fire in Courfeyrac’s eyes, cannot clear the unmistakable noise of Javert cocking his gun at Feuilly’s face, cannot wash away Valjean’s quiet desperation, Marius’ intense fury, Cosette’s panic.

He can’t forget a single moment, his mind colored with unrelenting memory.

 _You could escape_ , he says to himself. _You could try_.

But he knows there isn’t a way out of this jail cell without alerting someone, the building is so small, and where would he go besides? He cannot go back to Valjean and his friends because that endangers them, the very thing he’s fought so hard against. He’s been so focused on making sure he succeeded in protecting them that the future laid out before him seems almost incomprehensible.

If a future exists for him at all.

“Lemme go!” a distinctly female voice exclaims. “I know how this works, you don’t have to be so rough.”

“You were fighting,” the voice of a new police officer says, gruff with irritation. “And you resisted arrest. Pardon me if I’m a bit concerned you’ll run at first chance. Which cell, Lieutenant?”

“You can chuck her in there with the prisoner from Paris, if it’s alright with Inspector Javert,” the lieutenant answers, almost lazily. “Leaves the other cell free for any problem prisoners. Boy’ll be gone in the morning anyway.”

“It’s fine with me,” Javert says, standing up and greeting the other officer. “Inspector Javert of the Paris police.”

“Inspector,” the officer replies with a nod. He takes the keys, unlocking the door to Enjolras’ cell and tossing the woman inside. “What brings you to Avignon? Anything to do with the rebellions in Paris?

“Yes,” Javert says, glancing back over at Enjolras, grey eyes coated in sheaths of rock hard ice melting with madness. “This one’s suspected of being one of the rabble-rousers, so I’m taking him back to Paris in the morning where he’ll stand as a public example for anyone else who thinks insurrection creates justice. Or anything other than chaos.”

“Execution?” the officer asks, an odd expression on his face as he looks at Enjolras, almost as if he doesn’t believe him capable of being a rebel leader.

“That depends on the trial,” Javert says, tone clipped but sure. “One of the other surviving leaders was sentenced to death, one to life in prison. Although this one was rather difficult to locate, and I don’t imagine the court, not to mention the king, will possess much sympathy.”

Enjolras snorts softly, but Javert doesn’t hear him. He fists his hands by his sides, resisting the overpowering urge to shout at these police officers, to shout at Javert; he wants to tell them that they are not free, that they apathetically and willingly accept a government chaining it’s citizens, enslaving them, without ever needing physical manacles, dictates their lives without their input, dictates their worth, robs them of their humanity.

They are not alive, not truly, not like this, and realizing the power of freedom, the power of fighting for that freedom, for the beautiful glory of life and the future, just believing in it the tiniest fraction, that’s the first step toward life blossoming within their hearts, within their souls. Enjolras feels significantly alive right now, feels alive with pain yes, alive with just a dusting of fear, but also feels alive with love for his friends, for his family, alive with passion for every last person in the country for which he fights so hard.

_Love, thine is the future._

Empathy for every last suffering person burgeons in his soul, a wave of it crashing down on his head as he watches the activity in front of him, watches the woman struggle against the officer.

“What happened with that one?” the lieutenant asks, nodding his head at Enjolras’ new cell mate.

“Fight with one of her customers in the park,” the new officer replies. “Keep her in here for a few days, teach her a lesson.”

“He stole from me!” the woman exclaims. “What did you expect me to do, monsieur?”

He waves her off, tipping his hat to Javert and the lieutenant before heading back out on his patrol. Enjolras watches him go, then turns back to the woman before him; she’s a few inches shorter than he but desperately thin, long auburn hair hanging halfway down her back in limp curls, skin slightly tan from time spent outdoors.

“Bastards,” she mutters, looking up at Enjolras now, noticing him, it seems, for the first time, eyeing his nicely made clothes with surprise. “And who might you be? Don’t usually see your kind in here.”

“My kind?” Enjolras asks, standing up and gesturing for her to sit down.

“Bourgeoisie types,” she says, accepting his offer and sitting down on the edge of the wooden cot. He jerks in surprise when she pulls at his hand so that he’s also sitting down. “What’s your name?”

“I...” he answers, feeling awkward as takes his hand back. “Rene,” he finally says, feeling as if perhaps he ought not to share his last name, though it’s likely a moot point now. “And you?”

“Isabelle,” she says, resting one hand on her hip, which she’s cocked to one side. “I heard them say you were a…what was it? A rabble-rouser? Should I be frightened, monsieur?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” he replies, meeting her curious gaze evenly. He gets the sense that she’s attempting flirtation, though this is certainly an odd setting for such a thing. But then again she is quite unlike the grisettes who often made eyes at him in Paris, whether he noticed or one his friends pointed it out, and perhaps she simply wishes a friend in this distinctly unfriendly place.

“Well that’s a relief,” she tells him, seemingly intrigued. “I was a bit worried, what with you being a big-city rebel and what not you might be dangerous. Heard about those rebellions in Paris, all those people died, apparently. All over the city. Did you…did you kill anyone?”

It’s not a judgment, he knows, not on her part at least, but he hears his own voice in his head, hears its severity, sees Le Cabuc’s triumphant face morphing into terror.

_Collect your thoughts. Pray or think. You have one minute._

He shuts his eyes for a moment against the memory, against the questions ringing in his own head. Again, he hears his own voice, but this time he’s speaking to his comrades. To his friends.

_Citizens, what that man did horrible, and what I have done is terrible. He killed, that is why I killed him. I was forced to do it, for the insurrection must have its discipline…we are the priests of the republic, we are the sacramental host of duty, and none must be able to calumniate our combat._

He remembers the artillery sergeant, remembers his heart clenching excruciatingly in his chest, remembers the tears in his own eyes, remembers Combeferre’s words, remembers his own words at the top of the barricade.

_Whence shall arise the shout of love, if it be not from the summit of sacrifice?_

Progress, Combeferre always said, was humanity’s natural state, and Enjolras learned that he wholeheartedly agreed. But Enjolras also knew that progress sometimes would not begin unless kick-started by revolution, by rebellion, by sacrifice and by death, light spilling forth from that darkness, the sun rising over the night of the bloody barricade.

And yet now he questions himself, judges himself. But light springs from darkness, that is the nature of things. Fighting, terrible as it is, arises for the purpose of creating that first pinprick of light in the black, then hands it to Progress, which spreads the light to all the corners of the earth. He wishes for a world, believes in a world in which fighting and revolutions are not necessary to set progress ablaze, but that is not the current world, not the world he so firmly lives in now.

“Monsieur?” Isabelle questions, a hint of concern in her voice.

“My apologies,” Enjolras says quickly, recovering himself. “I was off in my head a bit. I…yes. I’m afraid I did…I did take the lives of my fellow countrymen. There wasn’t...much choice.”

“But so is the nature of a rebellion, I’d gather,” she says, surveying him, an intelligent glint in her eyes. Then they widen in what looks oddly like recognition. “I…you actually look a bit familiar.”

“I don’t know how that’s possible mademoiselle,” he says, bewildered. “I’ve never been in Avignon before.”

“The paper,” she whispers, revelation dawning on her face. “I saw traveling merchant men from Paris and they had papers back a few weeks ago and I picked one off the ground when they left it since I can read a little and I saw that sketch of your face. It took me a minute but I knew I’d seen that face before. And the men talkin’ they said people in Paris were calling you the ‘avenging angel’ or something like that. But they kept arguing over whether or not you were crazy and I couldn’t make sense out of the politics after that.”

Enjolras rather feels as if he’s been socked in the stomach, and he knows now that even if he somehow miraculously escapes from Javert’s clutches, that he will always lead the life of a fugitive.

That life that Valjean knows so well.

A life turned upside down with false names and invented pasts and always turning to glance behind you.

 _But he still did so much good with that life, so much good_ , Enjolras tells himself, hoping it calms the rapid beating of his heart.

Suddenly Isabelle winces, hand pressing to her side. “Damn.”

“Are you hurt madmoiselle?” he asks looking down where her hand rests and almost unthinkingly lifting the side of her coat. “You’re bleeding, did someone stab you?”

“I thought I felt something,” she says, removing her hand, which is now smeared with red, meaning she’s bled through her chemise, her shift, and her corset. “But I was so involved in getting that man off me that I didn’t really even notice.”

Enjolras rises, going toward the bars and speaking to Javert and the lieutenant.

“This woman is hurt,” he tells them, hands grasping the bars tightly. “She’s been stabbed and needs a doctor.”

“I’m sure it’s just a nick,” the lieutenant says, nonchalant. “Get prostitutes in here with that sort of thing all the time, and they’re always fine.”

“It’s not a _nick_ ,” Enjolras says, frustrated, focusing on Javert now. “You can’t just deny her medical care.”

“Quiet,” Javert says forcefully, putting down the newspaper he’s reading. “Or I think you’ll find I have ways of making sure you are. Or do I need to remind you about that bruise on your face?”

Enjolras narrows his eyes, turning away and heading back to the woman, who’s slid off her light coat, gingerly touching the wound, red stains creeping across the material of her corset.

“Madmoiselle Isabelle,” he says, thinking of Combeferre, of Joly, of their thoughts, their actions in this situation. “I need to take a look at your wound, see if there’s anything I can do.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to disrobe, Monsieur Rene?”

“I need to look at your wound,” he repeats, feeling distinctly awkward.

“So not a proposition then?”

“I’m afraid not,” he says dryly, but still kind.

“Pity,” she says, standing with her back to him now, but he can see a wry smile on her lips. “You might just be the prettiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“I’m certain that’s not true,” he mumbles. “I’m…rather not sure how to undo this.”

She leads him through the process of undoing the corset and finally she’s out of it, leaving her in her shift and skirt. With the pressure of the corset removed, the blood flows more freely than ever and Enjolras feels like he’s been slapped in the face again, feels a deluge of unchecked anxiety pour down on him, anxiety that he uncharacteristically cannot quite control when it hits. A bright flash of the barricade strikes like lightning in his head at the sight of the blood; he sees Bossuet fall, blood spurting from his two bullet wounds, hears Joly’s cry at the gruesome sight.

He shakes his head, swallowing back the emotions, the memories, the thoughts.

_Focus._

_Just focus._

“The material’s cheap and it’s ruined anyway,” she says, bringing him back into the moment. “You can just rip a hole in it to look at the wound, if need be.”

He pulls at the material and sure enough she’s right and the seam rips easily, and he gets a good look at the injury.

It’s even worse than he suspected, and from what he’s learned about anatomy from Combeferre, the knife possibly struck a vital organ and blood flows forth.

“Can you lie down, mademoiselle?” he asks, keeping his voice calm as he’s heard Combeferre and Joly do countless times for patients and he aches for missing them, aches for Joly’s unceasing cheerful ease with his patients, aches for Combeferre’s understanding, his almost super-human concentration. “Hold on just a moment.”

He retreats back to the cell door, limp more pronounced than ever without his cane, voice desperate this time, a hint of fury seeping in.

“This is not just a _nick_ ,” he says again, putting his face against the bars and looking at Javert and the Lieutenant. “This woman is…” he cuts off momentarily, hearing Combeferre and Joly’s voices in his head telling him not to scare her. “This woman is _injured_ , she needs a doctor.”

“Enjolras, back _off_ ,” Javert barks, standing now.  “You are causing a ruckus.”

“I will not,” Enjolras replies ferociously, staring Javert down as the inspector walks toward him. “You cannot ignore this woman, she’s hurt.”

Javert reaches the door, raising his eyebrows slightly when he eyes the woman. He locks eyes with Enjolras, not breaking off when he asks the lieutenant to retrieve some cloths and bandages.

“That’s not _enough_ ,” Enjolras protests. “She needs a doctor. I am not one.”

“Do you care to patch her up or shall I?” Javert hisses, his tone suggesting him doing so would not be pleasant for anyone. “I’m sure you’ve learned enough from you medical student comrades to patch up a simple knife wound?”

The intentionally hurtful words slash through him, and Enjolras blanches internally at the agony he knows Combeferre must be experiencing right now, knows how he would feel were their positions switched. He takes the supplies from Javert, turning back to Isabelle, who lays on the wooden bed, whiter now that just a few moments ago.

“Never thought I’d have such a handsome young man taking care of me,” she says, a weak smile playing at her lips. “Must be my lucky day.”

“I think you are hardly much older than myself,” he says lowering to his knees beside her, pain crushing through his leg, a dull ache in his shoulder. “If at all,” he continues, almost in a whisper. “If you permit it, I’d like to try and stem this bleeding.”

“So very polite monsieur,” she says. “And kind. Yes, I permit it.”

He takes the towel, pressing it firmly against her side, but not too hard, as Combeferre taught him afterhe barricades in 1830 when he was helping with the wounded. She winces again, jerking back a bit.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I know it’s painful but I’ve got to stem this bleeding.”

He holds the towel there, but the blood just keeps coming, slowly soaking the towel through, so he reaches for another.

“Can you lift yourself up for just a moment?” he asks. “I want to wrap this towel around you, that might help this process. I can’t even attempt to bandage it until this ceases a little bit.”

She nods, and he wraps the towel around her middle, and the red liquid still flows, darkening the white material and leaking onto Enjolras’ shirt. He wipes his bloodied hands on his trousers, unrolling the bandages now, but soon feels a hand resting over his.

“I don’t know that that’s going to help me now, Rene,” she says softly. “Or should I say Rene Enjolras. That’s a pretty name. A pretty name for a man who looks like an angel.”

“You flatter me mademoiselle,” he says, feeling his breath hitching in his chest and swallowing back his panic, etching calm into his face when he turns around once more.

“I cannot stop this bleeding!” he exclaims. “ _Please_ , she needs a doctor. This is not a game and this is not an escape attempt, she needs help that I cannot provide.”

The lieutenant and Javert appear at the door now, the lieutenant’s eye widening at the sight of the growing amount of blood.

“Go, lieutenant,” Javert says, jerking his head toward the door. “Are there any doctors near here?”

“One in the immediate area,” he answers. “All the rest about two miles away in Avignon, but I’ll go to Dr. Bellaire’s residence and see if he’s home.”

Enjolras watches him go, feeling Javert’s eyes on him, but turns at the sounds of Isabelle’s voice.

“Rene Enjolras,” she says, a feigned flirtation in her voice. “Would you please come sit with me?”

“I need to bandage this up,” he says, looking at the wound and furrowing his eyebrows. “I…”

“Just sit with me and wait for the doctor?” she asks, pulling the towel a bit more tightly around herself, but the blood stain grows, red inching further and further across the material. “I’m…I’m cold.”

Enjolras instantly removes his jacket, laying it across her, and sits down again, surprised when she moves, resting her head on his uninjured leg. Uninvited emotion swoops through his stomach; he thinks of his friends, thinks of his mother, thinks of how he would treat them in this situation, and lightly strokes her hair. She takes his free hand and though again he’s surprised by her actions, he doesn’t let go.

Because she might die.

She might die before that doctor gets here because these policemen didn’t care enough for the fate of a mere prostitute.

Of a mere human being.

He senses Javert’s presence still, knows the inspector’s eyes are on him, but he’s fallen oddly silent, watching them a very strange mixture of terror and lunacy manifesting within them. There are ghosts of something gathered in his darkening expression.

He’s drawn back into the moment by Isabelle’s voice.

“So what were you fighting for then?” she asks, clearly distracting herself from the pain, voice growing weaker. “Looks like you got pretty banged up; I see that bandage on your shoulder peeping up from your shirt, and you’ve been limping.”

“You’re quite the observant one,” he remarks, smiling sadly down at her.

“Maybe, but you still haven’t answered my question. What were you fighting for.”

Enjolras sighs, doesn’t know how to put what they were fighting for into a brief paragraph, into a few words. Words are powerful things, but now is not the time for grand speeches.

“Freedom,” he says simply. “For every man and woman.”

“For someone…like me?” she questions, tears forming in her eyes from the pain, her hand ghosting across his face. He’s all she has in this moment that might be her last, and that cuts into him with a sadness so deep that he almost cannot bear it; this woman is the very face of what he fights for, what all of his friends fought for, a woman locked into selling herself because she has no money, no options, no choice because of a monarchy and an aristocracy that holds sway over an entire country.

“For someone like you, yes,” he tells her. “Especially for someone like you.”

He still feels Javert’s eyes on him but the inspector remains strangely, absolutely silent, and Enjolras doesn’t look up; he cannot do anything but wait for the doctor now and he’s not sure he’s ever felt this helpless. At least at the barricade he could fight, he could do his best to protect his friends.

But then the barricade forms in his mind again and he sees Bahorel fall, remembers running toward him as he was bayoneted fighting two National Guard soldiers, but he couldn’t get there in time, couldn’t protect him. He almost laughs, because since when had Bahorel ever needed protecting, but Enjolras wanted to protect him nevertheless.

“Do you know any song about freedom, Enjolras?” Isabelle asks, pulling him into the present once again, her voice nothing more than a breathy whisper now, at least half the towel wrapped around her soaked with blood. “I should like to…to hear about freedom.”

Enjolras searches his mind, hating how frantic he feels, how completely out of control, but the only song he can immediately thing of is an American song his grandmother taught him as a child.

“You want me to…sing to you?” he asks.

“My father used to sing to me when I was a little girl,” she say, eyes falling closed. “He had a beautiful voice. It…it makes me feel warm inside, hearing people sing.”

“Alright,” he says, eyes flickering up toward Javert for the briefest moment; the inspector pants, breaths coming in quick, rapid succession as if he can’t get enough air, his eyes wide. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. “I shall sing to you. Though I don’t know how talented a singer I am.”

“I suspect your voice sounds a bit like a lovely hymn,” she tells him. “Please sing.”

And so despite the fact that he feels awkward, that he feels he simply isn’t the right person for this, he’s the only one, and he won’t deny this poor woman anything. His voice floats into the air, the notes of the song curling into the air around them.

“Should the Tempests of War overshadow our land, Its bolts could not rend Freedom's temple asunder,” he begins, eyes burning with tears he absolutely will not shed. “For, unmoved, at the portal, would George Washington stand, and repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder!”

He stops for a moment when she goes still.

“Keep…going,” she says, grasping his hand so tightly it almost hurts. “Please keep singing, your voice is beautiful.”

“His sword, from the sleep, of its scabbard would leap and conduct, with its point, ev'ry flash to the deep!” he continues, eyes never moving from her face when she opens her own once more, and they’re clouded with pain. “And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, while the earth bears a plant and the sea rolls a wave.”

His voice dies off, and she holds his gaze for a few seconds before her eyes fall closed, her body going unnervingly still. He leans over toward her face, desperate for the sounds of breathing.

But there are none.

She’s gone, died right here in his arms.

Her hand slides out of his own, and he turns both his palms over, seeing them covered and slick with blood.

_Slick with blood…_

Enjolras sees Jehan fall in another flash, sees the bullet pierce his heart, sees red bloom, flowerlike, across his unceasingly brave friend’s shirt, the light of the future Jehan always believed in still in his eyes as he falls. He feels his own feet slipping on the stones; he cannot gain footing, cannot reach Jehan.

In what feels like an out of body moment, Enjolras ever so gently moves Isabelle’s head from his leg, walking rapidly toward the cell door, ignoring the bullet of pain piercing his leg with every single step.

“Do you see what you've  _done_!” he roars, breathing hard, eyes dry now because he is simply beyond tears. “You have killed this woman, killed her because she wasn’t worth it to you! Do you see what you’ve _done_?”

“She was injured when she got here,” Javert protests, his voice devoid of its usual harsh, terrifying quality, sounding almost childish, sounding afraid, the ghosts waltzing across his eyes now. “She likely would have died had she been here or out on the street.”

“You wouldn’t call for a doctor!” Enjolras shouts, slamming against the bars, heart beating wildly in his chest. “You wouldn’t take it seriously because she’s just another one of those ‘filthy criminal scum’ you despise so much! Are you pleased she’s dead now? Are you _happy_?”

“Enjolras hold your _tongue_ ,” Javert says, voice hardening now. “Be quiet or…”

“Or _what_?” Enjolras interrupts, voice rough with wrath, and he’s quite literally never felt so out of control, the rage running through him like his own life’s blood. “You’ll arrest me? Done. Kill me? That’s likely my sentence already.”

“She would have died anyway and there’s nothing you could have done,” Javert repeats. “It’s the nature of her work, one of the risks she took.”

Enjolras hears the door open, hears the low voices of the lieutenant and another man he assumes must be the doctor, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t cease.

“So she’s just another disposable person to you?” he questions, voice rising with every syllable. “Just another human life for the trash, another life that doesn’t matter? She’s a _person_ , Javert, just like you or me, a person who didn’t deserve her fate, didn’t deserve having to sell her body to merely survive and not starve in the streets. She must have a family, a mother, a father, a child for all you know and you just let her _die_.”

Something Enjolras doesn’t understand flares in Javert’s eyes, and Enjolras’ own rage boils over the top like lava in a volcano, spilling around him in white-hot puddles when he hears Javert’s voice asking the lieutenant for the keys to the cell. The door flies open hard, banging back against the iron bars, and Javert comes directly for him, seizing Enjolras by the shirt.

“I did not let her die,” Javert says, tone deadly. “I believe the knife did that. Say one more word…”

“You refuse to show even the _smallest_ ounce of mercy to your fellow man,” Enjolras says, unafraid, almost spitting the words now. “You refuse to see the need for change, and you allow the people you’re supposed to protect to live in darkness, under constant night, because of your own fear, your own self-loathing.”

“Be quiet, boy!” Javert exclaims. “Just…”

“No!” Enjolras shouts, a blue wildfire blazing through his eyes. “Let go of me, just let _go_.”

He twists away from Javert, entire body trembling from pain, exhaustion, and fury, unthinkingly pushing against the inspector with his good leg, his bad leg giving out from under him and he goes crashing to the floor.

“Inspector,” the kindly looking doctor says, entering the cell. “Do you want me to give him some Laudanum?”

“ _No_ ,” Enjolras says, fighting against Javert who now has him pinned to the ground so that he cannot move, cannot fight with his injuries. “You can’t drug me, that woman is _dead_ , don’t you see, she’s _dead_. And more people like her will die more every day if this doesn’t _stop_.”

The barricade comes alive in his mind again; he sees the spattering blood, feels it on his face, hears the screaming, the gunshots, the unrelenting courage of his friends as they fought.

“Son, you need to take this,” the doctor says, kneeling down next to Javert.

“You can silence me,” Enjolras says. “But you can’t silence the revolution, can’t silence the voices that call from the future.”

There are hands pushing his cheeks in now and forcing his mouth open, the liquid burning down his throat, his vision blurring, he slides out just enough from under Javert, a fist flying toward the inspector’s face, but the man catches his wrist.

“More,” Javert demands. “Give him more. You don’t understand what he’s capable of, and I need him knocked out right now or we’ll never get to Paris in once piece. How long does it last?”

“It won’t last until morning,” the doctor says, eyes running over Enjolras’ form sympathetically. “But he’ll still be quite groggy. And I doubt he’ll have much energy after this.”

Enjolras shakes his head, but he’s shaking with effort, and then there are more hands on his face, more burning liquid down his throat until blackness overtakes him, sending him spiraling into unconsciousness.

* * *

 

An hour later, after the lieutenant removes the prostitute’s body from the cell and goes back into the office so he can fill out the required paperwork, Javert sits outside the cell of an unconscious Enjolras, who lies limp on the wooden cot.

The avenging angel tamed by potent drugs.

Something about this sight unsettles Javert, and the idea that he feels unsettled disturbs him even more.

Why on earth should he care that this frustrating, incorrigible, fugitive boy looks so utterly shattered?

 _Because he is not so easily broken_ , that familiar voice says. _Because he is made of something stronger than most anyone you’ve ever encountered before_. _Perhaps he isn’t yet broken, but he’s certainly cracked. Severely._

He sees Enjolras singing softly to the young prostitute, and it mixes in his mind with the image of Valjean holding Fantine as she died, promising her he would protect her daughter.

_The very daughter who prevented you from jumping off the bridge._

Enjolras and Isabelle, Valjean and Fantine, blur together, burning into his brain, and he shakes his head, willing the thoughts away

_Enjolras reminds you of Valjean. Despite their ages, despite the differences in personality and circumstance, despite all the other factors, they are very similar at their cores, so self-sacrificing, so kind, so merciful, and yet when the cause calls for it, intensely ferocious._

No.

Not Valjean.

A rebel. A fugitive.

_Valjean is a fugtive._

He remember Valjean’s anger the night of Fantine’s death, remembers their physical confrontation.

_If I have to kill you here, I’ll do what must be done._

He sees Enjolras’ intense gaze in the carriage, that gaze that seemed as if it saw right down to the depths of his soul.

_And that’s why you had to arrest me. Because I fight for everything he represents._

Javert shakes his head again, looking back up at Enjolras, at his blood-soaked clothing, at the blood reddening the floor.

For the barest moment he feels as if he might be ill, but he clenches his teeth against the wave of nausea. Against the wave of what he suspects is mercy.

Mercy that he absolutely will not show.

He’s _right_.

And Enjolras is _wrong_ ; it’s as simple as that.

 _But Valjean is right_.

_And that means Enjolras is also right._

He stands, ignoring the voice and going outside for fresh air, to clear his head and put it back on straight.

Because in the morning they leave for Paris.


	22. A Dream, an Awakening, and a Rescue Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Phew, glad to get this posted just in time for Barricade Day (or days, really, June 5&6) or the actual historical dates of the June Rebellion of 1832, the backdrop against which the barricades in Les Mis are set. Enjoy!

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

Chapter 22: A Dream, an Awakening, and a Rescue Mission

_Enjolras opens his eyes, finding himself once again at the barricade as he's been so many nights before._

_Oh, he doesn't want to be here, not again, not now. In one of his few pleasant dreams he saw the people rise, saw them come over the barricade with tri-color flags in hand, the National Guard raising the flag of surrender, the sun rising over all the barricades across the city with the bright light of the future._

_But that is not this dream._

_Inexplicably he feels Jehan's presence beside him, even as he watches yet another Jehan running toward the sewer, sees another version of himself directing, Combeferre, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire toward safety, eyes averting from the sight of Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, and so many comrades dead on the paving stones._

_It's like he's looking down upon the barricade from above._

_He watches the Jehan on the ground dashing toward him even as the silent Jehan beside him takes his hand, holding it firmly and completely in his own._

_The Jehan on the ground falls in one swift movement, the same bullet piercing his heart that Enjolras has seen a thousand times over, and yet it never hurts any less. He watches himself reach for Jehan, watches his feet slide on the tidal wave of crimson._

_But he cannot look away._

" _Jehan. No, Prouvaire please, I'm sorry…"_

" _I know," the Jehan at his side says, startling Enjolras._

" _Jehan," Enjolras says, turning toward him and taking his other hand. "I tried to save you."_

" _I know," Jehan repeats again, a sad smile on his lips. "I know you did, Enjolras. You would have saved us all and died a hundred times yourself if you could."_

_Enjolras nods, eyes falling to the ground. But Jehan takes his chin ever so gently in his hands, forcing Enjolras' gaze up toward his own, light, leaf-brown eyes boring into his own._

" _He cannot break you," Jehan says firmly. "Nothing can break you, not even this, not any of it. It's as Wordsworth says 'We have within ourselves enough to fill the present day with joy, and overspread the future years with hope.' That bit always made me think of you. This is going to be hard, going to be painful, but you'll make it."_

" _What…" Enjolras begins, because although he knows hope always rests within him, he feels incapable of existing any other way, joy currently evades him. Although that, he muses, is not entirely truthful; he is utterly joyful that his remaining friends are alive, are safe with Valjean and Cosette, even if he knows losing him wounds them deeply, so deeply that he cannot think upon it for too long._

_But how can he put himself back together if his life might end in a matter of days?_

" _Listen to me, Enjolras," Jehan says, eyes popping with urgency. "You are cracked, you are splintered, you feel as though you'll never in your life get put back together again. But you will, because your hope burns so deep inside you, Enjolras, so deep, that no matter how damaged, how hurt, how broken and shattered you feel, you will always find yourself again. Please, please remember that. Promise me."_

" _I promise," Enjolras replies without hesitation, because he cannot deny Jehan._

" _You have to let our friends put you back together," Jehan says, whispering now, squeezing Enjolras' hand harder, an odd sort of fear in his eyes, as if he knows something of the future Enjolras doesn't. "Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius, Gavroche, Monsieur Valjean, Madmoiselle Cosette. And Combeferre and Courfeyrac in particular, they know you so well, Enjolras. Just let them help."_

" _Jehan, what…" Enjolras starts, utterly bewildered now. He feels as if Jehan senses some sort of impending situation to which Enjolras himself is not yet privy._

" _Tell me you will," Jehan says firmly. "Tell me. Trust Combeferre. Trust all of them."_

" _I will," Enjolras says. "I will, I promise."_

_Something tugs at Enjolras' consciousness, something sounding distinctly like Javert's voice, and he feels his grip loosening on Jehan's hand._

" _Javert is awakening you," he says, tears brimming in eyes. "Go. But remember that we are all with you. Always. Especially when it hurts the most."_

_Enjolras nods, squeezing Jehan's hand one last time before slowly exiting the dream._

* * *

The sun peeks over the horizon and into the jail window opposite Enjolras' cell, stripes of light and dark falling across the floor through the bars and across Enjolras' face. The light intensifies the gold of his hair, but with the blood and dirt streaked across his face, he rather looks like a fallen angel, a far cry from the palpable intensity radiating off him during the barricade.

He doesn't wake when Javert hits the keys off the cell bars, nor at the scrape of the lock or the creak of the hinges. Javert stands over him for a moment, reveling in this moment of vulnerability from this ferocious child of revolution, rebellion embodied in mortal flesh. Javert peers down at him, noticing that he's flinching in his sleep, a name muttered on his lips.

"Jehan. No, Prouvaire, please, I'm  _sorry_ …"

"Up, boy," Javert snaps, a bowl of water, a towel, a glass, and a small bottle of Laudanum in hand.

But Enjolras still doesn't wake, clearly held under Morpheus' spell from the power of his dream, from the torture of his of his psyche.

"Jehan, oh God, I tried to save you…"

Jehan. Javert vaguely remembers the name from his infiltration of the barricade, remembers one of the other young men calling for a Jehan and a lad with shoulder length reddish-blonde hair answering, his eyes lit with hope and youthful fervor.

" _Up_ ," Javert repeats, louder this time. "Our stage-coach from Paris arrives in an hour."

Finally Enjolras jolts awake. He blinks, clearly groggy and disoriented as the doctor had warned after such a heavy dose of Laudanum and last night's fit of pique. Enjolras sets his jaw, pushing himself upright awkwardly with one arm, clearly in pain, movements slow and clumsy, lacking his usual grace and quiet strength. Javert takes a handful of his lapel and rights him, pressing him back against the wall before he can fall.

Enjolras doesn't move, still blinking in confusion at his surroundings, before settling his eyes on Javert, memories rushing back. He glares at Javert with all the usual power and fire, but something has changed, something is different, something tempered by the trauma, the drugs, the pain, and it clouds those electric, impassioned blue eyes. Javert now feels less of the sense that Enjolras could break him in two despite the differences in their physical sizes, and Javert finds he can't quite look at Enjolras head on, for reasons he'd rather not consider.

_You are causing an angel to falter, Javert,_  that voice says, harsh with judgment.

_There's no such thing as angels_ he says in reply.  _Only flawed, corrupt humans._

"Wash your hands," Javert says, placing the bowl beside Enjolras. "They're covered in blood."

"I don't know what difference that will make," Enjolras says, voice flaked with cold. " _Most_  of me is covered in blood, in case you haven't taken notice."

And it's true, Javert sees upon closer examination; Enjolras' trousers, his shirt, his discarded jacket, all dotted and streaked with brown-red stains. The combination of the growing bruise on Enjolras' cheek, his normally fiery gaze numbed by Laudanum, his dirty, loose blonde hair framing his face like a dimmed halo, makes for a rather terrifying sight. He has no waistcoat, Javert assumes, because of his shoulder wound, and either his own blood or Isabelle's reddens the bandage peeking out from beneath the loose shirt.

"Just do as I say," Javert says. "No arguments."

Enjolras complies, but with just the water there's not much he can do but try and clean some of the monumental amount of blood from his hands. He dips his hands in the clear water, watches tendrils of red snake away from his hands where the dried blood rehydrates and floods the water with pink. Javert watches him scrub forcefully at the skin, rubbing his fingers over each hand, desperately trying to divest himself of the stains. The boy shuts his eyes for a moment, and beneath the lids Javert almost sees flashes of the barricade, sees Enjolras desperately aiding his friends while fending off the National Guard, fierce in battle. Enjolras' opens them again after a moment, washing his hands even more forcefully now, but as there's no soap he can't clean it all away, Isabelle's blood still caked under his fingernails, but it's obvious that's not the only blood Enjolras thinks of. He pushes him thumb over and over again at the same spot in the center of his palm, even though it's been cleared of all remnants, water splashing over the edges of the bowl, his movements more furious with every second.

Javert's hands close like iron around Enjolras' wrists, stopping his frantic motions and passing him a towel, which he takes without comment, drying his hands in silence. His eyes are wide, breaths coming in short, shallow gasps and Javert now knows for certain he's remembering images from the fallen barricade, of his dead comrades, of the blood spurting from the prostitute's wound. He forces away any foreign feelings of sympathy, reminding himself that there is most certainly blood on this boy's hands; blood drenches any rebellion simply by default, and Enjolras killed, Enjolras rebelled, Enjolras broke more laws than Javert cares to count.

_America emerged a free country after such bloodshed_ , a voice sounding strangely like Enjolras reminds him.  _A country where the people speak for themselves, with their own voices. The boy reminded you of that._

_Yes,_ he retorts back silently. _And how has that worked out for France so far? Or do you recall the French Revolution? The guillotine, the streets running with blood? Napoleon's reign and the subsequent return to a monarchy? The 1830 rebellions?_

_It was a start,_ the voice says again _. An outcry from the people. Things do not always prevail on first attempts. Or even second ones._

"Drink this," Javert commands, pouring a measure of Laudanum into the glass, forcing the voice to the back of his head and watching Enjolras' expression turn stone-faced and immovable.

"No," Enjolras says, eyes rising up to meet Javert's, but the policeman has a hard time returning the gaze. "I won't let you drug me against my will. Not again. At the very least I won't make it easy for you."

"Do it, or I shall manacle your hands and  _make_  you," Javert growls, wolf-like, but there's the barest trace of breathless panic in his voice, panic that doesn't suit him. "I cannot risk you throwing a fit similar to last night's during this journey."

Enjolras does not break his gaze, lifting his chin defiantly, expression haughty, Javert's threats apparently lost on him. The insolence in his face enrages Javert, and he pulls the manacles from his belt, seizing Enjolras' hands. Javert watches Enjolras clench his teeth against the pain in his shoulder when Javert pulls him forward, but he can't prevent a small noise of agony escaping him as the manacles lock around his wrists. Javert takes a hard hold of his face, noting in this moment just how breakable the bones feel beneath his fingers, suddenly wondering at his need to chain and drug this somehow frail, injured boy.

_Because you remember what he's physically capable of, no matter how he looks, no matter his current state._

_And you also know you cannot bear hearing anymore of his words, cannot let them sear your psyche, cannot let them make you doubt your very foundation as Valjean's mere existence has done._

Javert tilts the glass to Enjolras' lips, and Enjolras is too tired, too physically weak now to fight against him as he had the previous evening, and after a beat he allows the pressure of Javert's fingers to open his mouth, the Laudanum flowing down his throat once more.

"Now wouldn't that have been simpler, had you just taken it yourself," Javert mocks, a strange guilt that he doesn't like spreading through him like a disease, a guilt to which he is not accustomed when dealing with criminals, and most especially not to those accused of high treason.

He's only felt the guilt with…

With Valjean.

In the sewers.

On the bridge.

The guilt which marks the schism between right and wrong. Between anarchy and the law. Between morality and justice.

He shoves the feeling away with vehemence, looking back at Enjolras, whose hand clenches around his injured leg, eyes squeezed shut again. On one hand, pride rushes through Javert at the thought of his victory over Valjean, over Enjolras, at the idea that he's tamed this fervently idealistic fool of a rebel, but a most unwelcome pang of regret tinges his almost manic rush of triumph. It unbalances him and he finds he is not at all sure of his own emotions, he's only certain he isn't interested in feeling them.

"It is for your own benefit." He mumbles at Enjolras, whose eyes crack open as he lets out a shaky breath, the medication already doing its work, building on the fragments still in his system. "I don't imagine your leg will appreciate the six day carriage ride, so the laudanum should be welcome."

"I don't welcome anything…forced down my throat," Enjolras shoots back with petulance, voice hoarse from last night's shouting, but his words are the tiniest bit slurred, a bit slow, the opposite of the crisp, clear syllables that usually dictate his voice. "And I'm not entirely sure the state of my leg matters a great deal; as you've said, I'm likely for the firing squad, so what's the trouble with some pain, when it reminds me that for now, I'm quite alive."

Huffing, Javert takes in the amount of dried blood, the dirt, marring Enjolras' face. Despite the fresh dose of laudanum, pain and emotion increases the burn in Enjolras eyes. The boy has the face of a warring archangel, and the sight of it covered in blood disturbs Javert. Without really considering it, Javert takes the cloth from Enjolras' lap, wetting it once more and dabbing at a streak of blood on Enjolras' face.

Enjolras however, instantly jerks back at the unwelcome touch, nearly losing his balance from his manacled hands.

"Hold still, dammit," Javert says, an odd softness in his tone, taking hold of Enjolras' delicate wrists with one hand. "You are enough of a sight in those bloodied clothes; I need to get it off your face at least, lest you frighten people on the journey."

Enjolras relents because he's far too exhausted for fighting this, especially without use of his hands, and Javert wipes away some of the blood, some of the soot, his heart beating rapidly in his chest as he does so. He runs the cloth over Enjolras' bruised cheek and his captive winces ever so slightly, but keeps his eyes trained in front of him. Javert feels a slight heat in the boy's skin as his fingers pass over his forehead, and he realizes he couldn't have escaped those sewers without a significant infection with open wounds in his leg and shoulder, and the beginnings of a fever stir under the dirtied flesh.

Javert blinks, realizing he's stilled with the cloth pressed against Enjolras' temple, and the boy watches him through drugged but alert eyes. Javert removes the cloth hastily, wringing it out, the red of the dried blood combining with the blackened dirt Enjolras acquired both from the cell and Isabelle's clothing, and the inspector hears the rebels' final chant when they'd finished resurrecting the barricade:

_Red, the blood of angry men, black, the dark of ages past! Red, a world about to dawn, black, the night that ends at last!_

And it's at this moment that Enjolras lifts his eyes to Javert's, and though they're clouding over with the influence of such intoxicating drugs, there's still that ever familiar spark of blue flame racing through them. There's still too much fight in him yet for Javert's liking.

Javert breaks eye contact, tossing the cloth down and pouring yet more Laudanum into the glass.

"Drink," Javert snarls, all traces of his momentary softness disappeared. "Now."

Enjolras glares at him with all the intensity of a thousand suns, but he takes the glass begrudgingly, likely more because of the worsening pain than any desire for acquiescence with Javert's orders. And besides, it's clear he doesn't want the drugs forced down his throat again. Enjolras drinks, but Javert notices sweat beading at the boy's hairline, his face tinting red, which is either an indication of a growing fever or teetering dangerously close to a Laudanum overdose. Javert seizes Enjolras' manacled wrist, stopping him just as he's swallowed the first sip, the glass falling from his hands and spilling on the ground.

"I thought you wanted me to…take that," Enjolras says, voice even heavier now.

"I need you conscious," Javert says sharply. "And you're showing signs of overdose. My superiors would prefer you alive when we reach Paris, if only barely."

Javert's eyes travel over Enjolras once more, thinking he looks painfully young in this moment, an almost faded version of the young man he'd seen atop the barricade, simultaneously hating himself for even giving these odd emotions, these thoughts, credence.

_What have you done, Javert?_

"How old are you?" he asks suddenly, accidentally voicing the words he's thinking in his mind.

Enjolras looks back up at him, fighting to keep his eyes open from the effects of the drugs.

"Why does that matter?" he asks, words monumentally sluggish now, yet still maintaining some power. "No matter how young or old I am, you won't grant me lenience. My age means nothing, in the scheme of things."

"You look a mere child," Javert says, a scoff in his tone, but to his own ears it sounds insincere. "And yet seem a seasoned warrior. And you have no rights, Enjolras, I command that you tell me."

Enjolras meets his gaze again, and Javert holds it, but it takes immense effort not to rip the glance in two. Enjolras' eyes grow duller by the moment, but there is still a light at their core, a light Javert senses cannot be erased.

"Twenty-five," Enjolras replies. "If it's so important to you."

Twenty-five.

Javert wasn't even yet a guard at Toulon at twenty-five.

_Twenty-five._

Javert swallows back the rush of hot, burning mercy or sympathy or empathy or whatever the hell it is coming up his throat.

No.

He will  _not_  do this.

He is  _not_  Valjean.

No, he is Inspector Javert of the Paris police, righteous upholder of what is right, and he does not feel anything positive toward a rebel, toward insurrection, toward anything of the sort.

_But you do_.  _You know you do. Now you see. Valjean has ruined you, opened up your mind to all these possibilities you wish to run from._

Enjolras is young, but he's also infinitely dangerous.

_The world is not black and white Javert. It never has been._

To France.

_No matter how much you wish from the bottom of your solidly encased heart that it was so._

To the law.

_What kind of law do you really defend when it can change on the whim of one man, one monarch, and those who hold power behind him?_

To Justice.

_Perhaps_ , that voice whispers a final time.  _He's dangerous to your own personal instability. And you want him gone, want him stuck in a prison cell in Paris and out of your hands, fully outside of your power._

_Or perhaps you simply want him extinguished. Because if he is, then you won't have to confront these emotions, these ideas which Valjean sowed in your head and Enjolras watered._

"On your feet," Javert says, severe once more, stifling everything within him but cold, unadulterated calculation. "The coach will be here soon."

* * *

Marius' leg bounces anxiously under the table, his hands fidgeting unconsciously atop it until Cosette rests one hand on top of both of his, stilling them momentarily.

He wants to go with them, wants to go with his friends to help save Enjolras, to follow Valjean. It had been his idea, after all.

But he knows Combeferre is right, knows his presence only creates danger for Enjolras, for his friends, for Valjean, and for himself, knows that his friends will worry for him if he goes, will get distracted. He knows Cosette would be crushed if something happened to him. She's consumed by worry already, consumed by worry for Enjolras, for her father, for all of them, and Marius hopes he can comfort her while they're all gone, and she him. Gavroche sits next to him in solidarity at also being left behind, but the little boy bears it well, because he promised Combeferre he would do whatever was asked of him, whatever was needed, and that meant staying home.

He knows all of these factors, and yet still feels so frustrated by everything.

So…purposeless.

_It's will be alright,_ he tells himself.  _Valjean and the others will save Enjolras, we will all be fine. You have Cosette here with you, living and breathing and real._

"Alright, Marius?" Courfeyrac asks, reaching across the table for the hand that isn't in Cosette's.

Marius looks up at him, the tiniest smile forming at his friend's concern, because even when Courfeyrac is anxious, sad, and afraid, he still somehow makes people smile, carries with him a sense of ease and amiability spreading around to everyone he encounters.

"I wish I could go with you," Marius says honestly. "Though I know I cannot."

"I know," Courfeyrac replies, squeezing his hand affectionately, eyes flitting over toward Combeferre; the guide sits at the corner of the table, so focused that he jumps when Feuilly comes over so that he might ply him with tea. "I would feel the same way. But selfishly, I'm glad that at least some of us will be safe here in this house." He looks at Cosette, a small beam of light entering his weary, worried green eyes. "I know I can trust you to keep Marius and Gavroche here in check?"

"You can," she says, sincerity and courage in every ounce of her tone. "And…" she's cut off by Valjean's appearance in the dining room doorway.

None of them slept a wink all night, but they all stand rapt at attention the minute Valjean enters.

"Madame Bellard tells me that the first stage-coach for Paris leaves Avignon at seven," he says, gazing around at the lot of them as if discerning whether or not they are planning something behind his back. "It is five-thirty now, and Javert will likely be preparing for the journey, and there will also likely be a shift change at the jail, which means less of a guard. I am going to confront Javert and try and get Enjolras back. But please, none of you follow me; I will not lie, this is a severely dangerous situation, and I do not want any more of you in danger. I cannot bear it, and I know Enjolras cannot bear it."

With that he turns to Cosette, kneeling before her chair and taking her hands in his much larger ones, expression pained, torn, but resolute.

"Be safe, Papa," she whispers, leaning her forehead against his. "I have all the faith in the world in you."

"I know," he says simply. "I know."

With that he kisses her forehead, gives each of them a somehow melancholy and yet still courageous smile, his eyes flickering to the only empty chair at the table, and the room goes still, everyone's eyes following his glance, the glance to Enjolras' usual chair, his absence palpable within every inch of the room and within every inch of them, this newly formed family.

"Javert is not in his right mind," Valjean says, looking at each of them in turn. "And I do not want any of you risking yourselves, especially when he is in this particular state. He and I have a history, and I am well-versed in handling him. So please, be safe here, and I will do everything in my power to bring Enjolras back to you. To us."

And then without another word, Valjean abruptly exits the room, the front door closing with an ominous echo behind him.

An ominous echo mixed with hope.

They wait for a sound, a sound of the carriage, a sound of horse hooves, in order that they might ascertain which mode of transport he chose. After a moment they hear the familiar sound of a single horse galloping off, and no sounds of carriage wheels following.

"Alright," Combeferre says after a moment of silence, his voice tight with tension. "We need to get to the stables, let Jacques prepare the smallest carriage and the horses, which should put us just the required distance behind Valjean. Madame Bellard told me the jail is about three quarters of a mile from here." He looks around at all of them, in particular at Grantaire, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac, who will accompany him, hazel eyes focused but swimming with barely controlled anxiety. "All of you promised me that you would do as I asked, that you would allow me to keep you safe. Is that still true?"

They all nod in absolute assent.

"We are at your bidding," Courfeyrac says, placing a warm hand on Combeferre's shoulder. "Whatever you say, we shall comply. None of us want to demean or undermine Enjolras' sacrifice, or your promise."

Marius watches Combeferre close his eyes for the briefest moment, leaning into Courfeyrac's touch, and his heart clenches in his chest, simultaneously beating faster and faster.

"It will all be fine," Cosette says firmly, one hand in Marius' and the other in Gavroche's. There's slight fear in her tone, which Marius suspects stems from her concern that her father will offer himself up in place of Enjolras, but there's also confidence, faith in her father, faith in them. "We will all be safe again."

Marius watches his friends, watches as something in Cosette's tone bolsters them, and he's filled with a nearly overwhelming love for the girl beside him, the girl he plans on proposing to as soon as Enjolras is once again safe among them. Each of his friends embraces Cosette, Gavroche, and himself; Grantaire looks as if he's on the near constant edge of shattering, but he's clearly steeling himself in order that he might help save Enjolras, though his hands still shake from withdrawal, and he shoves them in his pockets, Feuilly's eyes harden with resolve, with determination, and Courfeyrac runs a nervous hand through his curls, but bravery takes root in his eyes, courage that will save one of his closest friends. Combeferre meanwhile, lingers with Marius for a short moment.

"Thank you for helping me see that this was possible. And thank you for so willingly taking my advice and staying here." he says, hands on Marius' shoulders. "Thank you for not letting it go, for rallying me again. Because saving Enjolras, it's…"

"I know," Marius says warmly. "I know. All my love and prayers are with you, all of you and Valjean. Please be careful, Combeferre."

Combeferre squeezes his shoulders, and then he's gone too, leaving the room empty aside from Marius, Cosette, and Gavroche. Marius' eyes trail over the empty chairs at the empty table, and he prays silently to God, pleads, begs, bargains, that by nightfall they will all be filled again.

* * *

Javert grasps Enjolras tightly by the elbow, and Enjolras feels himself growing unsteady and faint on his feet from the effects of the Laudanum.

Without warning his bad leg crumples and the knee of his good one folds, hitting the ground sharply and sending pain from the wound radiating through him.

"Dammit," he says softly, but his head spins, immediately trying to right himself, dizziness threatening him, the world an incoherent blur in front of him.

"Up, boy," Javert snarls. "I'm not carrying your pathetic carcass to the coach when it gets here."

"I…" Enjolras breathes, gulping for air, the momentary softness he'd sensed from Javert earlier retreated far away now. "I'm…. _trying_."

He rises slowly from ground, legs trembling uncontrollably beneath him; he stands, but he knows it won't last long.

Javert seizes his his lapels.

"You will not escape from me, Enjolras," he says, voice laced with danger, with mania. "Do not even try it."

"Do you even...think..." Enjolras replies, words very slurred now as the Laudanum fully sets in. "...I could...like this? Or that I wanted to? I knew when I...when I started that this...might be my end."

_Soon you shall see the fate to which I have condemned myself._

Suddenly there are horse hooves galloping toward them, a cloud of dust, and an approaching white-haired figure.

Enjolras looks up, shaking his head and clearing his vision. The world is a haze of color, and he feels his conscious mind melting, and he cannot fight against it, cannot overpower the potency of the drugs, no matter how much he desires to. He blinks again, focusing all of his energy on deciphering the newcomer.

Valjean.

It's Valjean.

Enjolras' heart leaps in relief and drowns in distress simultaneously.

_No._

No, Valjean cannot risk himself, not now, there is too much for him to do, too much for him to protect.

Why is he  _here_?

And yet this action touches Enjolras deeply, and he feels a familiar fluttering of hope in his chest among the devastating feelings of anguish.

Valjean dismounts the horse with the grace of a much younger man.

"24601," Javert says, barely masking the shock in his voice. "No.  _No_ , not this time you old fool. I've won this time, I am right. You cannot save this boy, Valjean. You  _failed_ saving Fantine, she died Valjean, she  _died_ and you couldn't stop it, and you…you will  _fail_ saving Enjolras. His blood will spatter the paving stones of Paris, you mark my words."

"You don't mean that, Javert," Valjean says, frowning just slightly, but his tone brims with aggression. "You don't mean a word of it. You're not taking Enjolras in because you think it's right anymore, you saw the bloodshed at the barricade, saw it with your own eyes, and you couldn't possibly think shedding more is right. You once did, but if Cosette's story about finding you on the bridge is any indication…"

" _Stop_! Your daughter denied me my dignity, she denied me my…my…she denied me…" Javert shouts trailing off, eyes shattered fragments of grey glass wild with repression, with unchecked fury, with regret. "You don't know  _anything_  Valjean. You know nothing about me.  _Nothing_."

"I know more than you think, Javert," Valjean says, easing closer to them. "Now please, just let Enjolras come with me. "

"No," Javert says, flicking open a knife, Valjean's knife, holding it inches away from Enjolras' throat. It's a threat of the most serious kind, and Enjolras feels a rough pain in his scalp as Javert grabs a fistful of his hair with his other hand. His knees give way beneath him, and the only thing holding him upright is Javert's grip on his hair, Javert's arm holding him painfully tight against his chest, the sun glinting off the knife in front of his eyes. "I don't think I will."


	23. Breakdown

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde    

(Men of Mercy)

 Chapter 23: Breakdown

Valjean watches his own knife hover in front of Enjolras’ pale neck, heart racing beneath his skin; one wrong _move_ , one wrong _word_ , one wrong _breath_ and Enjolras’ life ends right here in front of him.

For the first time since arriving, Valjean sees clearly the state of Enjolras’ person: his clothes are covered in blood-stains yet there’s not a sign of any new injuries on his body, there’s blood caked under his fingernails, dirt streaked across his face, a bruise on his right cheek, hair loose and tangled as if he’d slept wildly or gotten into some kind of physical confrontation. And his eyes, his eyes are hazy as if he’s under the influence of a very heavy dose drugs, sweat beading at his forehead despite the very mild temperatures. He’s only upright because Javert holds him there, his bad leg quaking from pain, his other leg following suit by trying to hold him up all on its own.

“Javert,” Valjean says, even and careful, knowing that allowing too much desperation through will only increase the tension. “Please put the knife down. This has nothing to do with Enjolras.”

“Not everything in my existence revolves around _you_ , Valjean,” Javert says, voice steely. “This fool broke more laws than I can count, shed blood, was involved in a treasonous rebellion and you think that has nothing to do with why I’m _here_?”

“I didn’t say that wasn’t part of what drove you here,” Valjean says, voice still calm even as panic flutters in his chest. “But it isn’t why you’re pointing a knife at him now. You’re angry because it was I who rescued him; you feel a connection between us, think us the same. You want to follow your orders by bringing him in, but even more than that now, you want to hurt me by hurting Enjolras, want to show me I’m wrong.”

“You talk too much,” Javert hisses, throwing Valjean’s own words back in his face, the knife inching closer to Enjolras’ throat. Enjolras’ face is inscrutable, his eyes gazing at Valjean, pulse visible on the side of his neck.

“You can see he’s just a boy.” Valjean says takes two small steps forward. “He’s badly hurt. He’s already destined for a life in hiding; let him be, Javert. I beg of you. What does this prove?”

"One more step, Valjean, one move, and your precious rebel dies right here! I can't have you following me to Paris. He’s very nearly the same age you were when you entered Toulon,” Javert says, placing the knife lightly against Enjolras’ skin now, and the boy doesn’t flinch. “He may be young, but he made his own decisions. He’s capable of leading a Republican insurgent group, capable of preparing for a barricade, capable of rebellion and chaos and killing. He was trouble for us even before the barricades, along with his _precious_ lieutenants, riling up people in the streets with his words and their pamphlets. And now he’ll pay for it.”

“You know how old I was when I entered Toulon,” Valjean says in matter of fact tone, the hint of a question in his voice, directing Javert’s attention to him rather than Enjolras in hopes Javert will drop the knife.

“I know everything about you,” Javert replies. “ _Everything_.”

“And yet still nothing of me, Javert. Take me, instead of the boy.”

“No,” Javert says, adamant. “ _No_. There is no deal here, Valjean. The coach will be here any minute, and Enjolras will come to Paris with me.”

“And why won’t you arrest me?” Valjean asks, even though he’s certain he knows the answer already, because he is the embodiment of everything that doesn’t make sense in Javert’s mind: he’s both a convict and a good man.

And worse yet, a reformed man.

A changed man.

“Don’t you dare toy with me,” Javert says, voice low and harsh with unadulterated fury, but Valjean hears the crack of desperation. “Don’t you _dare_. You know… you…”

“I don’t,” Valjean lies, meeting Javert’s eyes only to have Javert rip his gaze away. “Explain it to me.”

Valjean remembers the alley behind the barricade, remembers Javert turning on his heel after Valjean cut the rope and released him, remembers the other man’s cry.

_You annoy me. Kill me rather!_

A feral scream erupts from Javert’s lips, and Valjean thinks the force of it could knock him back.

“I nearly jumped off a _bridge_ because of you,” Javert says, suddenly, disconcertingly calm again. “Because of _you_ I very nearly plunged myself into the depths of the Seine, and you dare ask me why? I…”

Suddenly there’s the sound of horse hooves coming to a halt a few yards away, and Valjean’s heart sinks from his chest into his stomach, a burning flood of nerves stealing into his forced calm.

He told them not to come, he _told_ them…and yet he is not surprised they came, half-expected them.

But they cannot come any closer, the situation is far precarious, far too fragile for any interruptions, any new influences.

Enjolras’ eyes follow Valjean’s, the first sign of visible fear trickling in as they watch four figures pile out of the carriage. Valjean breathes a sigh of relief that at least Marius, Cosette, and Gavroche are still presumably safe at the house. Combeferre bids the others to stay back, and Valjean notes that they instantly obey. Combeferre himself, however, steps forward.

“Stay back, Combeferre!” Valjean orders. “Stay back.”

Combeferre does, gathering the others behind him, arms holding them back out of instinct. Valjean cannot bear seeing any of them hurt, knows Enjolras cannot bear it, but knows certain as he lives that these boys couldn’t let Enjolras go, and only imagines just how frustrated Marius must have been after being left at home.

It’s Enjolras’ voice that pulls Valjean’s attention back to the two men in front of him.

“You can’t…arrest him,” Enjolras says, his speech slurred and halting, but there’s a hint of the power Valjean heard at the barricade there within his tone, something commanding. “Just leave all of them _alone_ , just take me and…”

Javert removes the knife, a smile worthy of the darkest nightmares curling at his lips, and spins Enjolras around toward him. He seizes Enjolras’ face in one hand, putting the weapon back in its former position, pressing harder this time.

“You ask me _why_?” Javert repeats, full emphasis on the last word, glancing at the group of Amis gathered in the distance. “Because in a moment of weakness, in a moment of doubt, I thought you were right about all of it, Valjean, and thought I was wrong.”

“And now?” Valjean asks, scarcely drawing breath.

“Now,” Javert replies, eyes locking on Enjolras’ face, tightening the grip on his chin. “ _Now_ I know that sending you back to the galleys will teach you nothing. But I do know what will teach you a lesson, will teach those rash rebels a lesson, will teach everyone like you a lesson.” Javert’s eyes move momentarily to Valjean before looking back at Enjolras. “And that’s taking this rabble-rousing leader to meet his fate, a fate handed down to him by the unmerciful dictates of the _law_.”

And then Valjean hears it, hears the word he hopes will save Enjolras, will save them all.

It might even save Javert himself.

“You talk of following the law,” Valjean says, tone regaining its steadiness. “And yet you stand here with a knife to someone’s throat, taking the law you’ve always claimed to live and die by into your very own hands, Javert. I don’t believe your superiors would direct you to kill a prisoner who isn’t attempting escape, who is hurt and weaponless. Legally, if you should point a weapon at anyone, it should be me, as I’m the one interfering. Do not become what you despise the most, Javert. Put the knife down.”

The inspector freezes, the words having their desired effect. Grey eyes jerk between Valjean and Enjolras, Enjolras and Valjean, and Javert shakes his head, shutting his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again, staring hard at Enjolras, who stares back at him, a crack in his unfathomable expression at the cataclysmic sight of Javert’s mind finally exploding in front of his eyes.

Javert releases Enjolras from him, stepping back, knife clattering to the ground, eyes wide as he looks near hyperventilation.

Enjolras sways for a moment before stumbling, pitching backward without the support of Javert.

Valjean seizes him before he falls, catching him with an arm about his chest and desperately gripping the younger man to him, pressing his back against his chest, both arms wrapped tightly around Enjolras’ torso.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he murmurs in Enjolras’ ear, soothing, though his eyes never leave Javert. “You’re safe now. Everyone’s safe. I won’t let you go.” He can’t see Enjolras’ face, but he feels his breath hitch for a second.

Enjolras sinks to the ground, legs unable to bear weight any longer. Valjean could hold him up, does so for a moment, but cannot continue without hurting Enjolras by the tightness of his grip. So he folds with him, never loosening his hold on the boy until they are kneeling on the dusty road, with Enjolras weak, trembling, and propped against Valjean’s chest, Valjean sitting back on his heels behind him.

And that’s when Javert starts laughing.

He laughs.

And laughs.

And _laughs_.

It’s a frenzied, hysterical, surprisingly high-pitched laugh, the sound rising and falling as Javert draws gulping, frantic breaths.

It’s as if Javert’s brain is glass and someone swung directly at it with a hammer.

It’s one of the single-most disturbing things Valjean thinks he’s ever witnessed, and yet a sliver of sympathy for this man, this man that’s chased him for twenty years, the man who just had a knife to Enjolras’ throat, remains within his heart, no matter the anger, no matter the frustration.

Finally the laughing ceases and Javert sits on the ground, hands rubbing furiously at his temples, then at his eyes, finally running through his grey-black hair, some of the strands coming loose from the tie.

But he doesn’t look at them, not yet.

Valjean’s eyes look back over at the boys, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and Feuilly still gathered behind Combeferre, all their eyes roving back and forth between Javert and the two of them. Valjean presses Enjolras tighter against him, wishing he could grab hold of the knife, of Javert’s pistol, of any potential weapon, because this situation is as unpredictable as any he’s ever been involved in.

Javert shakes his head, mumbling to himself, eyes flicking up to meet Valjean’s.

He holds the gaze, he holds it for a solid minute at least, his eyes a swirling storm of instability.

And then he rises.

He rises and pockets the knife, but Valjean’s air flow ceases for a moment when he sees Javert reaching for something on his belt.

Keys.

It’s keys.

Javert approaches them, squatting down on the ground in front of Enjolras rather than demanding either of them get up, and Valjean can barely hide his astonishment.

“Hands,” Javert says, his voice fragmented with gruff emotion, sounding heartily unlike the voice Valjean’s heard coming around every corner for the past two decades, the voice whispering into his dreams that there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

Enjolras complies, holding his hands out, the key clinking against the manacles as Javert unlocks them. Valjean watches Javert and Enjolras observe each other, getting the sense that something Enjolras said, something he did, impacted Javert somehow, much as Javert might have hated the mere idea. Guilt lines every crease in the inspector’s face, and guilt is not a feeling Valjean has ever expected from Javert.

He feels guilty for Enjolras’ condition: that much is clear, and Valjean finds himself desperate to know what conspired between them in the past day, why Enjolras seems almost outside of himself, why Javert seems so affected.

“Javert,” Valjean tries.

“Don’t,” Javert snaps. “Just…don’t.”

Valjean nods, obliging.

Thankful.

“Here,” Javert says, brusquely, holding the knife over to Enjolras. “I need your blood. Cut your palm.”

Enjolras stares at him from his place on the ground next to Valjean, the older man’s arm around his waist the only thing holding him upright, but he takes the knife, his grip unstable from his trembling hands.

“Javert,” Valjean protests. “What…”

“I need evidence for my superiors that Enjolras is dead. They’ll need a story for the papers, for Loius-Phillipe,” Javert says, persistent. “Which means I need his blood and some kind of personal item. Do you have such a thing?”

Valjean watches thoughts form like bewildered clouds in Enjolras’ eyes, watches him nod and pull out a handkerchief out of his pocket, the words R. Enjolras stitched in red along the edge. Enjolras holds out his palm in front of him and lowers the knife toward it, his hand shaking so furiously that he cannot keep a firm hold.

Valjean silently places one hand over Enjolras’ own and steadies it; he hates the idea of this, hates the idea of Enjolras experiencing even more pain, but Javert is right in this instance. Enjolras will be a fugitive still, but he’ll be a fugitive who isn’t actively hunted, and Valjean wants to make this complex situation as easy as possible. And besides, Javert clearly has to cover his own tracks. Valjean places his other hand under the one Enjolras means to cut, holding it still.

“Ready?” he whispers to Enjolras, well aware of Javert’s eyes fixed on them.

Enjolras catches his eye, nodding, and Valjean presses his own knife into the soft flesh of Enjolras’ palm, fresh blood flowing forth onto Enjolras hand. Enjolras emits a small noise of pain, but it’s so soft only Valjean hears it; he pockets the knife with every intention of throwing it out upon their return home, because he doesn’t want to lay eyes on it again, and he’s certain Enjolras won’t either. He takes the handkerchief from Enjolras, wrapping it around the wound and allowing the blood to soak it through before handing it back to Javert, the stage coach approaching down the road.

“You are dead, Enjolras. Do you hear me? Dead,” Javert says, taking the handkerchief. “As far as society knows, Rene Enjolras was shot and killed by my own hand in an escape attempt.”

Enjolras moves as if he protests the story Javert has come up with, as if he resents the idea because he had been so willing to accept his fate on behalf of his friends, on behalf of his cause, but there is clearly no energy left in him to fight Javert on this.

“And it would serve your friends best if they did not return to Paris in the near future, either,” Javert says, casting a glance at the group of Amis gathered several yards away, all standing behind Combeferre. “Some of them are on watch lists. I need to hear you say that you understand me, boy.”

“I…do,” Enjolras says, as firm as he can manage, and Valjean grows more worried by the moment, as Enjolras’ ability to speak dwindles, as if his mind shuts down against him. “I understand.”

“I’m sure Valjean can invent a name and a life for you,” Javert says, curt, voice hoarse from his earlier breakdown. He looks once more at Valjean. “It’s a particular _talent_ of his.”

Valjean’s mind rings with memories, one line shouting over all the rest.

_The man of mercy comes again…_

That’s what he sees in Javert’s eyes now, the faintest glimmer of the mercy he’s taunted Valjean with teeming in his eyes.

He also knows Javert hates it with every fiber of his being, but it’s there now. It’s taken root.

Valjean only hopes the man’s mind survives the encounter, survives the fact that he’s let Valjean go willingly twice now, both times with a rebel in tow, and this time with the leader who’s wanted by all of his superiors, by the king himself.

The coach stops a few feet away, and after a piercing glance at the pair of them, his eyes filled with a distinct, melancholic madness, Javert turns away, saying something to the confused looking driver before climbing inside and slamming the door. Valjean watches the coach kick up dust, Javert’s face looking at them a final time through the window, shaking his head again before his eyes move forward.

And then he’s gone.

Valjean looks at the young man still resting against his chest and turns him ever so gently around, arms wrapping lightly around his middle in an embrace.

“You shouldn’t…have come,” Enjolras whispers, held back tears cutting sharply into his words. “This was my fate, I…accepted it, you shouldn’t have come, you shouldn’t have risked yourself, there’s too for you to do, too much for you…to protect.”

“Listen to me,” Valjean says, pulling Enjolras instinctively closer, feeling almost as he had the night he’d first laid eyes on Cosette in her dirty rags in the woods near the Thenardier’s inn. “Ever since the moment I decided to help all of you escape from the barricade, you have become someone I want to protect, Enjolras, no matter how capable you clearly are of protecting yourself, or protecting those you love. I want to protect you all.”

Enjolras’ hands grasp Valjean’s sleeves in response, blonde head resting against his chest, his entire body tense with the battle of containing his emotion and his pain.

“You are a warrior for the people, Enjolras, and I cannot protect you from your purpose because that is a disservice to you and the truly honorable cause for which you fight with every fiber of your being,” Valjean says, overcome with his own feelings. “But there was a chance to save you, and I would see you live to keep fighting.”

He’d never expected anyone else to storm into his life like this after Cosette, but now Enjolras, now all of these boys have done just that. He hugs Enjolras closer, wishing there was something as simple as a doll he could buy to cheer him up for even a moment as it had Cosette. Katherine hadn’t healed Cosette’s emotional injuries, nor her physical ones, but she’d helped, was something for the little girl to hold onto when she slept at night.

But there’s nothing like that.

All Valjean can do is take him home, put him safely in bed surrounded by his friends, and help him in any way he can in what Valjean knows will be a long emotional journey for all of them.

Because these boys have been through hell.

“But I could not leave you with Javert,” Valjean continues. “Not when there was a chance of saving you. There’s too much for _you_ to do, Enjolras, so much for _you_ to protect. I can at least protect you now.”

Enjolras nods into his chest, hands grasping Valjean’s coat sleeves even tighter.

“Your friends are here for you. Your friends came, much as I might have forbid them. But Combeferre kept them safe, do you see?”

Enjolras moves his head, seeing Combeferre’s arms still holding everyone back out of precaution. At a single gesture from Valjean, Combeferre runs toward them full-tilt, outstripping the other three. When Combeferre reaches them Valjean hands Enjolras very carefully over to him, still keeping his hold on Enjolras’ waist to keep him upright. Combeferre squats down in front of Enjolras, taking his face gently in his hands, as if afraid his touch will break Enjolras into pieces.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre breathes, thumbs running under the skin of Enjolras’ eyes. “My friend, my dear, dear friend.”  Concern grows on Combeferre’s face when he sees Enjolras’ overcast eyes.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras chokes out, as if saying his friend’s name makes him more real, more solid.

“I think it’s quite possible he’s been drugged,” Valjean tells him as Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly gather in a semi-circle around them, giving their friend room to breathe.

“Enjolras.” Combeferre says his friend’s name again like a whispered prayer. Enjolras opens his eyes; they are swimming with tears and unfocused. His defenses are down, Valjean sees, his marble mask nowhere in sight. “Can you tell me what they gave you? Laudanum?”

Enjolras nods.

“Last…last night,” he replies, words coming out in sharp, jagged pieces now, as if each one pains him. “Blacked…blacked out. And…more…this morning. You…weren’t supposed to come. But you…you kept them all safe.”

“I did,” Combeferre says, and Valjean sees the tears in the other boy’s eyes now. “But none of us could let you go. _I_ couldn’t let you go.”

Enjolras meets Combeferre’s eyes, and Combeferre rests his forehead to Enjolras’. It’s this small thing that breaks Enjolras, and an eerie, chill inducing, manic laugh erupts forth from him, followed by a half scream, half dry sob that sends ice-shards through Valjean’s heart. Enjolras puts a hand over his mouth as if shocked by the sound, shocked that it’s even spilling forth from him, as if he has no control over it, but that doesn’t cease the noise. It dies slowly after a few moments of its own accord, echoing through the air and bouncing back into their ears, into their memories.

It’s all their grief embodied in a single shattering sound.

* * *

 

Combeferre doesn’t want to let go of Enjolras.

He never wants to let go of Enjolras again, but he knows they have to get him in the carriage, have to get him home. He looks around at his other three friends, surveying their faces, their reactions and looking for some hint that he doesn’t feel so alone in feeling lost at the Enjolras’ he’s found; he’s seen Enjolras at his worst, at his best, happy, sad, angry, confused, content, disturbed, he’s seen the entire spectrum of emotions in his friend.

But not this.

Never anything like this.

This is not the passionate, intense Enjolras he knows, filled with so much compassion it bursts forth in the flaming rhetoric of freedom. Nor is it the mild-mannered, charming, quiet young man who sits in his classes paying rapt attention to the professor, or the young man smiling indulgently at his friends’ antics from the corner table of a cafe. 

Courfeyrac’s eyes are red, but Combeferre can tell he’s fortifying himself, readying himself to help, desperate to do whatever Combeferre asks of him in this instance, but there’s a veiled fear in his expression, a shock at seeing Enjolras like this, at hearing that sound. There’s strength there too, Combeferre knows, the kind of warm, dependable strength upon which Combeferre can always count.

Feuilly glances desperately around him and then back down at his hands as if looking for invisible answers just lost on the edge of his fingertips, compassion pooling in his eyes. He pulls the new cap Cosette insisted on purchasing for him off his head, twisting it in his hands before his gaze rests on Enjolras.

Finally Combeferre looks at Grantaire, whose eyes are so wide they nearly pop with anxiety, and there are very real tears streaming down his face, tears he doesn’t seem to notice as he stares down at Enjolras. It is a testament to the gravity of the situation if Grantaire’s crying in front of anyone, and Combeferre’s heart twists; Enjolras is superhuman to Grantaire, and seeing him so…so…

_Broken._

_Not permanently_ , he tells himself. _This is trauma and pain and injury. Enjolras will find himself, will pull himself up again from the depths of this darkness because that’s his greatest strength, always holding on to that light._

But seeing Enjolras so ripped apart must very nearly kill Grantaire.

Because it’s very nearly killing Combeferre.

Enjolras’ forehead still leans against his Combeferre’s own, his breathing shallower than Combeferre likes. He’s certain Javert gave Enjolras too much Laudanum now, just in the way his pupils nearly eclipse the blue of his irises.

“Enjolras.” Combeferre runs a light finger over the bruise on Enjolras’ cheek, where it looks like a ring must have into contact with his skin. “We need to get you to the carriage and get you home. Can you stand?”

“Yes,” Enjolras rasps, a far cry from his usual powerful, graceful tone.

Valjean keeps hold of Enjolras’s waist while Combeferre takes his arms, but the moment his feet make solid contact with the ground beneath them he collapses, saved from falling by Valjean’s firm hold.

Combeferre whips around to Grantaire, one of the physically strongest among them, the one who’s always helping Enjolras around, the one who’s carried him multiple times since the barricade, the one who carried him through the filthy Parisian sewer system, but Combeferre meets a terrified expression and a barely noticeable shake of Grantaire’s head, chest heaving as though he cannot get a deep breath. It’s as if Grantaire thinks his mere touch will shatter Enjolras into tiny, irredeemable pieces.

Courfeyrac notices the exchange, and after lightly grasping Grantaire’s arm, turns toward Combeferre.

“Take Valjean’s place on Enjolras’ other side would you please, Courfeyrac?” Combeferre asks. “So he can drive the carriage? I did a poor job getting us here…”

“You got us here,” Courfeyrac answers amiably. “And that’s what matters.” He turns to Enjolras, voice going even softer. “Alright my friend. Mind if I put your arm around my shoulder here so I can help Combeferre get you up?”

Enjolras shakes his head, and in one fluid movement Combeferre and Courfeyrac lift Enjolras from the ground, carrying the majority of his weight between them; Combeferre has the side with his bad shoulder and his freshly injured hand, and once they’re all in the carriage he knows he needs to temporarily attend to the gash.

“Is there an off chance someone has a handkerchief?” he asks. “Or even a cravat, something to tie around Enjolras’ hand?”

Almost in the same breath he feels Grantaire place a clean handkerchief in his hand, pulling back almost instantly.

“Thank you, Grantaire,” Combeferre says, more than a little concerned for his friend’s state of mind, but there is not yet time to think it through. He turns back to Enjolras as Valjean gets the horses going, the carriage wheels rumbling beneath them. “I’m going to wrap this around your hand for now, alright?” he asks, not doing anything without first alerting Enjolras.

“Alright,” Enjolras echoes, the single, pained word a knife in Combeferre’s chest.

Combeferre watches Enjolras quietly reach for Courfeyrac’s hand on his other side and Courfeyrac smiles, one of the saddest smiles Combeferre’s ever seen grace his features, and takes it, intertwining Enjolras’ fingers with his own, his free hand moving in small circles atop the skin of Enjolras’ arm.

Combeferre ties a knot in the handkerchief, then takes the hand and holds it loosely in his own without aggravating the cut. A slap of grief stings the skin of his cheek as surely as Javert’s hand must have done to Enjolras’, given the ring-shaped bruise on his face. How he wishes for Joly’s medical mind in this moment, how he wishes for Jehan’s sweet, calming voice, for Bossuet’s sarcasms to make them truly smile even the slightest inch, for Bahorel’s insistence that he simply sweep Enjolras up and carry him.

But he has none of that now, and it hurts so fiercely he feels as if he might never recover from the pervasive, pounding ache.

Enjolras doesn’t say a word for the duration of the carriage ride, nor does he let go of the tight grip he has on Combeferre’s fingers.

Opposite Combeferre, Grantaire looks everywhere but directly at Enjolras, eyes straying back to their leader as if drawn there by some unseen power, but each time his gaze lingers only for a split second before snapping away.

Enjolras doesn’t see this, his eyes lowered, staring fixedly, blankly, at Feuilly’s knee. Feuilly’s own gaze trains itself on Enjolras, openly worried and frowning.

On Enjolras’ other side, Courfeyrac’s fingers are still tangled into Enjolras’, and of all of them in this carriage he looks the most at peace, Combeferre muses. Courfeyrac feels things keenly and strongly, but at the moment, he looks as though he doesn’t have space in himself to feel anything beyond relief at having Enjolras back within his reach where he can keep him safe.

Said relief overwhelms Combeferre; Enjolras might be covered in blood, drugged, and near-catatonic, but his fingers are real and solid between Combeferre’s own, and for now, that is enough.

It will forever be enough.

He feels Enjolras’ fingers clench again as the carriage judders to a halt and wonders how on earth they are going to manage the stairs with him in this much pain despite the drugs already in his system. Courfeyrac climbs out first, taking Enjolras’ uninjured arm around his shoulders and taking the majority of his weight while Combeferre climbs down too, their hands still intertwined. Enjolras cannot move his injured shoulder, nor bear any weight through his injured leg, so Combeferre has his arm wrapped tightly around Enjolras’ waist, balancing and stabilizing him as he limps slowly into the house.

Combeferre feels Valjean behind him, hearing the older man’s voice, a voice somehow washing him with calm, with surety, even during this horrific ordeal, tell him that he’s going upstairs so that he might write Flora.

Enjolras’ breath catches in his chest, the stairs looming before them, and Combeferre sees Cosette and Marius appear in the doorway to the parlor, Marius pushing Gavroche behind him as soon as he catches sight of Enjolras, unable to hide a small gasp. Gavroche protests and Marius turns away to placate him. Cosette’s has somehow in the space of a few seconds arranged her face into a mask of composure, and had Combeferre not looked at her when her eyes fell on Enjolras, he might not have seen the flash of horror pass over through them even as she steeled her features into something more relieved that he is home with them.

The stairs beckon, and Combeferre nearly suggests a downstairs room unless Enjolras prefers his own bed, fighting the urge to simply sweep his friend off his feet entirely, when Enjolras awes Combeferre with his determination again by gritting his teeth, a hint of the familiar determination flickering across his face, and taking another awkward step towards the stairs.

Enjolras is still somewhere within this shell of him they’ve found, and it gives Combeferre more courage than he can say aloud.

Enjolras hops up every last step until they are at the top, shaking violently between them. Combeferre feels the knee of Enjolras’ good leg give out over the last few steps to his bed but he still continues moving, the arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders now limp from fatigue so that Courfeyrac is holding all of his weight with the arm around Enjolras’ back.

Combeferre and Coufeyrac lay Enjolras’ barely conscious form gently as possible on his bed. Very aware of the other’s eyes on him, Combeferre directs his first words to Enjolras, because he’s quite literally never seen his friend like this, doesn’t know what’s happened, only suspects that whatever happened in the jail compounded upon everything else; the barricade, their dead friends, the abandonment of the people, the injuries, the illness, the sacrifice of himself to protect them all, creating the utterly unprecedented situation before him.

“Enjolras,” he says, sitting down gingerly on the bed and turning toward him. “I know you’re tired and I know the Laudanum Javert gave you only emphasizes that but you…you’re covered in blood and I understand you don’t want to tell me why right now, but I need to check you over for new injuries, check your old injuries…”

Enjolras grasps Combeferre’s wrist mid-sentence, stopping his words.

“Sick,” Enjolras says, voice barely audible. “Going to be…”

“Courfeyrac, the chamber pot please, quickly,” Combeferre says, keeping as calm as he can manage.

Courfeyrac does instantly as asked, and Combeferre helps Enjolras sit up; mere seconds later he’s vomiting into the pot, one of Combeferre’s hands resting on his back.

“It’s alright,” Combeferre murmurs so only Enjolras hears him, pulling his hair back over his shoulder with one hand. “It’s alright. This is either because of the Laudanum your body couldn’t absorb or because of shock, which isn’t surprising.”

“Can’t,” Enjolras breathes, eyes looking up to meet Combeferre’s. They’re washed in pain, washed in grief, washed in an agony that sends goose-bumps racing down Combeferre’s arms. The only thing that comforts him is the small pinprick of light cresting within the waves of anguish crashing down in splashes of cornflower blue. “Can’t…see me…like…”

_They can’t see me like this_ , is what Enjolras wants to say.

_Of course they can_ , Combeferre wants to answer. _They love every part of you, not just the parts they’ve already seen and already know_.

But right now isn’t the time for such words. Combeferre looks around the room. Grantaire stands barely in the doorway, wild terror etched into every inch of his face, his eyes shattered shards of hunter green; Courfeyrac’s eyes shine with unshed tears, every inch of him clearly wanting to scoop Enjolras up in his arms and make all of this better; Gavroche, who managed to sneak into the room, stands next to Feuilly, both sets of hands stuck in their pockets, wide eyes locked onto their friend and chief. Marius and Cosette stand near them, holding tight to each other. Marius’ eyes are trained on the floor as if he simply cannot bear looking, while Cosette meets Combeferre’s gaze, eyes wrapped in worry.

“I’d greatly appreciate it,” he begins, voice emanating with kindness, but serious so that they all understand his meaning. “If everyone could possibly wait for me in the drawing room while I check on Enjolras’ injuries and help him get some sleep? Courfeyrac, if you’d stay for a moment please.”

Grantaire’s gone in an instant, eyes landing on Enjolras for mere seconds before dashing out as though there’s fire on his heels, and Combeferre meets Feuilly’s eyes, silently asking him to check on their friend.

They rest nod in assent, and Cosette squeezes Combeferre’s hand before ushering everyone out of the room and leaving Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac alone.

“Going to be sick again?” Combeferre asks gently once the door’s closed behind them.

Enjolras shakes his head in answer.

“Okay, would it be alright if Courfeyrac and I made you a bit more comfortable?” Combeferre asks, wishing for the Enjolras who’ll fight him, the Enjolras who tells him he’s fine, that he needs rest and that’s all, perhaps a good meal and to clean himself up, but that Enjolras isn’t here, and that terrifies Combeferre. “Get your jackets and boots off?”

Enjolras nods, looking away once more. Combeferre pulls Courfeyrac toward him, speaking softly into his ear.

“I know he’s filthy and covered in blood, and I want to check him over, but for now I think I need to let him sleep for a bit,” Combeferre says, slightly reassured by Courfeyrac’s perpetually warm hand in his own. “But he’s going into shock, and I think he’s been overdosed, so I need to stay here and watch him carefully. I need you to help me lie him down and keep him warm.”

Courfeyrac squeezes his hand in response, and Combeferre hears his friend’s shallow, anxious breathing.

Combeferre ever so carefully slips off the navy blue jacket, very nearly feeling the pain himself when Enjolras winces at the uncomfortable feeling in his shoulder, while Courfeyrac moves to the end of the bed, removing Enjolras’ boots. Courfeyrac shifts and pulls the covers back. The two of them move Enjolras’ unresisting form so he’s curled on his side, still fully clothed and filthy, and Combeferre pulls the blankets snugly up and over Enjolras.

“Courfeyrac, can you get some sweetened tea from Touissant please?” Combeferre asks. “Actually, could you ask her to make some for everyone?” Combeferre says softly. ”And a cold cloth, if you please.”

Courfeyrac obeys the request almost immediately, the slightest hesitation in the way his hand lingers on Enjolras’ hip as he leaves.

In a voice so soft it’s almost a whisper, Combeferre says “I think you’re going into shock. It’s…expected. Tea will help, sleep is better, if you can…” He strokes hair back from Enjolras’ hot forehead.

Enjolras doesn’t respond, his eyes don’t close but continue staring, blinking off into the depths of his own mind. It’s Combeferre sitting on the bed, hands slipping under the blankets and taking Enjolras’ cold, clammy hands in his own, hoping he can warm them that draws Enjolras’ gaze back to his own.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says, almost to himself. “Combeferre.”

“Yes,” Combeferre answers, fighting against the tears gathering in his eyes and fogging up his spectacles. “Yes, I’m here Enjolras, and we’re all safe. I kept my promise to you. They’re all safe, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius, Gavroche, Cosette, Valjean, all safe.”

“Knew…you…would,” Enjolras says, tugging slightly on Combeferre’s hand, his entire body shivering. At this silent communication Combeferre moves fully onto the bed, sliding his legs under the covers next to Enjolras’ and turning on his side to face him, hands still rubbing his friend’s to keep them warm. Courfeyrac finds them this way a few minutes later, returning with two cups of tea in his hands, a cold cloth balanced on his arm.

“I am the master of carrying three things with two hands,” Courfeyrac says, the barest hint of a joke in his tone.

Combeferre smiles genuinely at him, accepting Enjolras’ tea cup as Courfeyrac places the second one on the nightstand. He helps Enjolras sit up and Enjolras wordlessly allows Combeferre to tilt the mug to his lips, as his own hands shake far too furiously for a firm hold. He can’t have eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, Combeferre realizes, and even if he’d had food or water at all, he lost it vomiting a few moments ago, so he frantically gulps the tea and Combeferre doesn’t chide him for the speed. Once he’s had about half the contents he stops, eyelids falling heavily.

“Sleep,” Combeferre says, laying him easily back down. “Sleep, Enjolras. We’ll get you cleaned up when you wake, alright?”

Enjolras doesn’t nod, doesn’t shake his head, he merely closes his eyes in response, head falling back against the pillows, hair a wild, untamed mane of dirtied curls contrasting starkly against the white sheets.

Once Combeferre’s sure Enjolras really has slipped into true sleep he hears Courfeyrac speak softly to him.

“Combeferre what’s...” Courfeyrac tries. “He can barely speak, I don’t…”

“It’s,” Combeferre begins, sighing. “Part of this is the likely drug overdose, part physical pain, part mental trauma, part shock, part fever. But there’s…it’s all compounded on him, Courfeyrac, everything that’s happened, physical and emotional. And something occurred in the jail, I just know it, something that made everything worse. And the extreme dose of Laudanaum just broke all of his defenses.”

Combeferre removes one hand from Enjolras, reaching out for Courfeyrac’s reassuring touch, silent for a moment before speaking once more, his gaze never leaving their sleeping friend.

“Can you let everyone know what’s going on?”

Courfeyrac squeezes his hand in affirmation and leaves silently, closing the door with a soft click behind him, leaving Combeferre alone with Enjolras.

* * *

 

In the hallway, Courfeyrac leans back against the wall and takes a shaky breath, letting it out through pursed lips.

They’ve got him back. And that’s enough. It’s Enjolras, he’ll be alright, he’ll be fine, he’ll be…

Won’t he?

He’s never seen the ghosts haunting Enjolras’ eyes like that before, has never seen or imagined seeing him like this, piercing blue eyes foggy with drugs, hazy with pain, their perpetual light dimmed-but not snuffed out, he reminds himself-by shadows. Something happened in that jail, something that Courfeyrac wishes he knew, wishes he knew so he could understand, so he could help, so he could separate out the physical ailments from the emotional ones, so he could tackle Javert hard to the ground and make him pay for whatever happened. He knows it is not just the past twenty-four hours that have impacted Enjolras in such a way, but it _was_ the catalyst for the situation at hand.

He cannot banish the image of Javert’s knife to Enjolras’ throat, no matter how hard he tries.

_Enjolras will be alright_ , he tells himself. _We will put him back together if that’s what it takes. Piece by glowing piece._

He goes down the stairs, steeling himself before opening the parlor door, running through what he will say for a moment.

Every eye turns to him when he enters. Valjean arrived back in the time he was upstairs and sits between Marius and Cosette, Cosette’s hand dwarfed between his much large ones in his lap. Gavroche presses close to Marius, the older boy’s arm around his shoulders in brotherly affection and comfort. Feuilly and Grantaire flank the fire; both are pale, Grantaire especially so. Even Toussaint and Madame Bellard hover by the mantle.

 “He’s sleeping,” Courfeyrac says in a controlled and even voice, hoping it doesn’t sounds as tremulous to them as it does to his own ears. “Combeferre is with him. He’s been drugged, he’s in pain, he’s in shock, and he’s running a slight fever. But it is not infection.” He adds quickly, noticing the panic passing across every face in the room, a shared image of Enjolras the night he almost succumbed to a fever flashing through every mind. “Combeferre says he needs rest first of all, and to get the excess Laudanum out of his system and to recover from shock. And…time.”

No one speaks, no one but Valjean, his voice sound strange in the utter silence that overtakes the room.

“Do we need to summon a doctor?” he asks. “Or will Combeferre be alright on his own?”

“Alright on his own, I think,” Courfeyrac replies, taking the chair Cosette indicates beside her, watching as Feuilly does the same, eyes flitting to Grantaire, who still stands by the mantle, running a hand over and over again through his black curls. “Combeferre was done with nearly everything save his final exams before…before the barricade. He learned quite a bit at his Necker internship, and he’d let me know if he needed assistance.”

Valjean nods, falling into silence with the rest of them and Courfeyrac breathes in deeply again, soaking in the fact that they’re together now, that they’re safe, that Javert is gone.

Because it’s the only thing that comforts him.

 


	24. The Aftermath of the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the ever fabulous ariadneslostthread!

  Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

  (Men of Mercy)

Chapter 24: The Aftermath of the Storm

Complete, utter quiet fills the room aside from the slight rasp of Enjolras’ breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

Combeferre holds the Laudanum responsible for suppressing Enjolras’ breathing. He knows it will eventually pass, just as he knows that if this persists he will have to give Enjolras medication to evacuate the drugs from his system. He detests Javert all the more for attaching bad memories to the Laudanum, the very thing that can at least abate Enjolras’ physical pain.

He feels Courfeyrac take his hand, intertwining their fingers and squeezing. He glances over; Courfeyrac’s eyes are trained on Enjolras and although he smiles to acknowledge Combeferre’s glance, he does not look away.

Combeferre doesn’t recall ever feeling this lost in all his twenty-six years.

He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to act.

_Nothing._

He _always_ has a contingency plan, _always_ thinks things through, _always_ has the answers, but now as he watches Enjolras sleep fitfully on the bed in front of him, as he watches Courfeyrac’s eyes rove over their friend then flit back to the floor, he has no wisdom to offer, can hardly grasp onto the comfort he always provides.

He can only hold onto the hope that eventually, he will.

If only he could _think_ clearly.

Combeferre turns again to watch Courfeyrac, seeing his friend’s lip quiver, tears breaking over the rims of his eyes and flooding down his cheeks even as Courfeyrac presses his lips together and squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes in slowly, deep and controlled through his nose, desperate not to make a sound, desperate to suppress the tears, to suppress his emotions. It is an action so distinctly unlike Courfeyrac, who wears his heart on his sleeve, feels strongly and openly, unashamed to weep or laugh or scream in frustration in equal measure. It is this, more than the tears themselves, that chill Combeferre’s heart. He hears Courfeyrac release a shaky, tear-ridden breath, clearly stifled for fear of waking Enjolras.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says softly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac says eyes breaking away from Enjolras and looking up to Combeferre, tears slipping from his eyes even as he wipes them away with his sleeves. “I know I could wake Enjolras up…I…”

“I think it would take quite a bit more to wake Enjolras up right now,” Combeferre says kindly. “Sit with me on the chaise lounge for a moment?” he asks, indicating the far corner of the rather expansive room.

Courfeyrac obliges, and once both of them are seated Combeferre takes both of Courfeyrac’s hands in his own, a gentle sign that Combeferre wants Courfeyrac to talk to him, a gesture that’s well-practiced between them.

“It would be terrible enough,” Courfeyrac begins, grasping Combeferre’s hand tighter as he speaks. “If _any_ of us were in this state. But…Enjolras. Enjolras is light and fire and life, he’s so _strong_ …and I don’t…I don’t…what _happened_ to him in the past twenty-four hours, Combeferre? What _did_ this to him?”

“I don’t know my dear friend,” Combeferre says, wistful. “I don’t know, though I do hope to find out from him, when I can. But this is trauma built upon trauma, and a mind, even Enjolras’ resilient mind, can only take so much; whatever occurred with Javert, it was the catalyst for this state, I believe. The arrest itself, having to tear himself away from us, that was torturous enough, knowing how much it hurt us to watch that. Having a knife to his throat whilst we looked on couldn’t have helped, along with the immense amount of Laudanum, the immense of amount of pain, the fact that a mere few weeks ago he almost died from infection. Not only must we all adjust to a new life, but Enjolras must adjust to being a fugitive. You heard Javert: to society, Enjolras is dead. And besides all of that…”

“It really only has been a month since the barricade fell, since we lost our friends,” his voice falters a little, and he closes his eyes in remembrance of their so recently deceased, beloved friends. “Since we all watched the people fear to come to our side,” Courfeyrac finishes, completing Combeferre’s thought. “And we are still recovering from that.”

 “Yes,” Combeferre agrees, unable to banish the sounds of the barricade from his mind for a moment, hearing in sharp remembrance the sound of Joly’s cry of sheer agony when Bossuet fell, Jehan shouting Bahorel’s name as he was pierced by the bayonets of two national guards. “And Enjolras’ feelings of guilt…”

“He needn’t feel guilty,” Courfeyrac insists. “It is _not_ his fault the barricades failed, just as it is not Charles Jeanne’s fault or our fault or any republican leaders’ fault. Each and every person on every barricade believed the people would join us. There was unrest in the streets; the people seemed so _with_ us, Combeferre. They have risen in the past as recently as two years ago, which we saw with our own eyes. There was no way to predict…and we all knew _exactly_ what we were getting involved in, what the risks were whether the people joined us or not: we knew we might face death. Enjolras didn’t coerce us into this by any stretch of the imagination. We selected him as our leader for a _reason_ …”

“I know that and you know that,” Combeferre replies. “And in his heart Enjolras knows that too. I have no doubt that he will keep fighting because it’s who he is, but survivor’s guilt is a powerful, powerful emotion, one we all feel on some scale right now, but Enjolras even more so because he’s our leader, because he wants to protect each and every one of us.”

“I just want to know what Javert _did_ to him,” Courfeyrac says. “Enjolras was certainly hurting before, we were all hurting, but now… _now_ he’s…he’s…”

Coufeyrac cannot bear to utter the word.

_Broken._

Courfeyrac’s voice trembles and fails, an audible sob escaping him.

And then he cannot cease.

Combeferre lets go of Courfeyrac’s hands, pulling him into an embrace, holding him as close as humanly possible, Coufeyrac’s chin hooked over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to _do_ , Combeferre. It would take such horror to put Enjolras in this sort of state. I…” Courfeyrac says, warm tears sliding from his eyes and onto Combeferre’s shirt. “I have never seen Enjolras hurt this badly, and I want to _mend_ it, I want to _help_ him…”

“I know.” Combeferre kisses the side of Courfeyrac’s head, voice cracking. “I know. I do too, so very much.”

“We will put him back together,” Coufeyrac answers, pulling back and looking Combeferre directly in the eyes, lifting one hand and placing it on Combeferre’s cheek, his lips lifting in a fond, melancholy half-smile.  “It goes against everything that is right in the world, seeing Enjolras this way. Nothing…nothing has ever felt so wrong in my life. We are all changed, certainly, but that hope at all of our cores, at Enjolras’ core…that cannot be ripped away from us. Not forever.“

Combeferre thanks god for Courfeyrac in that moment; he knows he will lean on him in the days to come as Enjolras in turn leans on him. If it weren’t for Courfeyrac, Combeferre isn’t certain how he might go about soothing Enjolras’ tortured soul without his own coming undone in the process. Because his dearest friend battles with pain Combeferre cannot treat and cannot heal with medication or bandages, only with words, with love, and with time.

“Enjolras suffered things, had to go places in his mind and in reality so that he might save us from doing the same,” Courfeyrac continues, holding Combeferre’s hands once more, eyes flickering over to their sleeping friend. “And if he cannot bear his usual mantle for a while, we shall keep it safe for him.” He places one hand over his heart. “Because that is far too precious to lose.”

“Yes,” Combeferre agrees, feeling the tears spring to his eyes. “Yes it is.”

Silence falls between them for a few moments, and Combeferre focuses on the warmth of Courfeyrac’s skin, of his normal breathing, of his mere presence, before speaking again.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, squeezing Courfeyrac’s hands again. “I’d very much appreciate it if you could find Cosette for me? I’d like to ask a favor of her. And after that, I’d like you to go get some sleep. Though if you could, check in on Feuilly and Grantaire. I can hear about Marius from Cosette, but I’d like to know how they are. But after that, sleep, please, Courfeyrac.”

_Because I will need you later_ , are the words he doesn’t utter, but they’re the words Courfeyrac knows he means. Coufeyrac wordlessly rises from the chaise lounge, squeezing Combeferre’s hand one last time. He walks over to the bed, laying the ghost of a kiss on Enjolras’ forehead, words Combeferre can’t hear on his lips. He exits the room, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

Exhaustion seeps into every bone, every muscle, every crevice of Combeferre’s body, but he cannot sleep, cannot look away from Enjolras, not when his friend’s breathing is so shallow. He knows anyone else in the house would be willing to take a shift watching Enjolras.

But he can’t sleep, not yet.

Seeing his beautiful best friend, filled with so much light, so much hope, so much pure belief he practically glowed, knocked down like this, struck down by a people, by a government who isn’t ready for the future for which he fought so hard, the future for which they all fought so hard, feels like an anvil sitting permanently on his chest. He sees a flash of the barricade in his mind, sees the single tear rolling down Enjolras’ cheek when he shot the artillery sergeant to save the barricade for just a few more minutes, to save just a few of his comrades.

_Let me alone. We must do what we must._

It’s a soft knock at the door that jolts Combeferre from his thoughts, from his anxious observance of Enjolras’ disturbed but heavy sleep.

“Come in,” he calls softly.

Cosette enters, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Courfeyrac said you were asking for me?” she says, pulling up a chair next to his and gazing at Enjolras with eyes that brim with the overwhelming sadness Combeferre feels deep in the pit of his stomach, the feeling that spreads to the center of his chest and sits, mocking him.

 “I did,” Combeferre says, shaking out of his thoughts. “I was wondering if you might help me with something.”

“Of course,” she says, resting a hand over his. “Whatever you need.”

“I need to check Enjolras over, get him cleaned up, and I can do that myself,” he explains. “But I need to get these sheets changed, and his hair is a tangled mess, and…this might sound silly, but I was wondering if you could brush it out? I was going to ask Courfeyrac, but I told him to please get some sleep after he found you, because I’ll need his strength for my own sanity later. Enjolras trusts you, I know. I think he’ll feel safe with you. I thought it…”

“Might be helpful,” she finishes. “Yes, absolutely. Shall I get some warm water and some cloths?”

He nods. “Please, I would very much appreciate it. How…how is everyone else?”

“Worried,” she says, a tight smile on her features. “Marius is trying to keep Gavroche occupied, Papa just sits in his study, thinking, and Grantaire…well last I saw Feuilly he was standing outside trying to get Grantaire to let him in his room.”

Combeferre nods, soaking in the information.

“Thank you Cosette,” he continues. “Thank you very much. Much as I’m loathe to do so, I’m going to try and wake him while you’re gathering the cloths and the water.”

She goes, leaving the door open a crack behind her, and Combeferre turns to Enjolras, surprised to find his friend’s eyes fluttering open.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, treasuring the sound of the name on his lips, because he’d been so afraid he’d never get the chance to address Enjolras again. “You’re awake.”

Enjolras opens his eyes fully now, but looks frantically around the room as if he’s forgotten where he is, jumping when Combeferre touches his shoulder lightly. He whips his head around toward Combeferre, breathing hard, before calming slightly when he focuses on the familiar face.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Combeferre says, calm. “You’re at home with us, at M. Gillenormand’s in Avignon. There’s no one and nothing here to harm you, to harm any of us, I promise.”

Enjolras’ eyes meet Combeferre’s, a wave of understanding passing through them as his breathing eases, but he doesn’t say a word.

“I was just about to wake you.” Combeferre sits once more on the edge of the bed. “So we can get all that dirt and blood off you. Cosette is going to come and brush the snarls out of your hair, if you don’t mind? Don’t want the dirt getting matted down in there. I would have asked Courfeyrac, but he’s been sitting here with me for hours, and he was in desperate need of rest. Do you mind if Cosette gets the tangles out of your hair?”

Enjolras shakes his head, pushing himself up in bed on unstable limbs.

“Good then,” Combeferre mutters, lost for what to say. “Good.”

He helps Enjolras over to the chaise lounge so that he might change the bedding, soiled now by dirt, blood, and sweat. Just a few minutes later Cosette returns with the promised items, along with a fresh roll of bandages they’d bought in Avignon a few days ago.

As he changes the dirtied sheets, Combeferre eyes Cosette and Enjolras out of the corner of his eye, neck pinched with anxiety.

“Do you mind if I wet the brush a bit?” Cosette asks, and just hearing her tone reassures Combeferre he was right in coming to her; Enjolras still hasn’t spoken since awakening, but Cosette continues on as if things are normal, speaking to Enjolras in the same tone of voice she always uses, and Combeferre thinks once again just how mature and well-adjusted she is for a near eighteen-year-old with such a distressing past. Valjean, he muses, is an excellent father, despite his unusual circumstances.

Enjolras catches Cosette’s eye very briefly, and shakes his head once more.

“It’s warm water,” Cosette continues, dipping the brush in the bowl. “So it should feel rather nice. It just makes it easier to brush through the curls.”

Enjolras closes his eyes as Cosette takes the first gentle stroke of the brush through the fly-away blond curls that nearly touch the top of Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras’ hair is almost always tied back, so Combeferre sometimes forgets how long it is compared to his own short locks. It seems longer still as Cosette continues her work, slowly and ever so gently brushing out the tangles and the curls, dampened brush taking the dirt with it along the way.

Enjolras doesn’t wince once at a snarl, nodding when Cosette asks if she’d like her to tie it back for him. She does, slicking back a few loose strands hanging in the front and brushing them out of his face.

Combeferre almost smiles, because Enjolras never understood why women and men alike gazed after him when he walked past, and he took his friends’ word for it that his appearance was not particularly inconspicuous.

But rather than the intense, blazing fire Combeferre’s so accustomed to, there’s an apocalyptic rainstorm darkening Enjolras’ eyes, the barest hint of sunlight peeking out behind the clouds, shading them a most atypical grey-blue.

“Alright,” Cosette says, turning toward Combeferre. “I’ll leave you to check him over, Combeferre. But let me know if you need anything at all. Either of you. I expect I’ll be in the drawing room with Marius for a bit.”

She looks Enjolras in the eyes, leaning down to kiss his cheek, and Combeferre sees the slightest upward quirk of Enjolras’ lips. Cosette is a pure, wonderful example of a person given another chance at life by the kindness of one man, and seeing her happy, seeing her whole, likely makes Enjolras remember how much he wants such a chance for every person in France, for every person in the world.

Just that _chance_ at happiness, at freedom.

He had once strived for only the Great French Republic, but under the influence of Combeferre and Feuilly’s ideas, under the influence of the Friends of the ABC at large, Enjolras turned his sights toward the Immense _Human_ Republic.

And no matter Enjolras’ state now, Combeferre knows that idea still lives in him.

It _is_ him.

With that, Cosette takes her leave and the two friends are left alone.

Combeferre’s laid towels all across the fresh bedding in order to keep it dry while he cleans Enjolras up. He feels the apprehension emanating off Enjolras, so he strides over to his chair, squatting down in front of his friend.

“I really need to get you cleaned up and check on your injuries,” he says, keeping a normal tone, hoping it will coax Enjolras into talking again. No matter how hurt, how traumatized, Combeferre knows speaking to Enjolras as if he was a child will not get him anywhere. He moves slowly as he speaks, so Enjolras can see everything he’s doing; he lifts a hand to feel Enjolras’ forehead and take his pulse. It’s still rapid, but less thready than before. “I know it isn’t what you want right now, and I don’t want to cause you any more pain, but I want to make sure nothing’s been exacerbated, to be certain there’s not a recurrence of infection; you have a bit of a fever.”

“Alright,” Enjolras whispers after a moment, the first words he’s spoken since he awoke, and Combeferre holds onto the small sound with everything in him.

Combeferre never thought he’d see the day when he’d wish for Enjolras’ stubbornness about his own well-being and part of him welcomes, expects, Enjolras’ usual arguments.

But they don’t come.

Combeferre helps Enjolras back over to the bed, helps him undo the buttons on his shirt, helps him slide it off, helps him out of his bloodied trousers as Enjolras winces in pain when he places full weight on his bad leg. Enjolras lies down on the bed, shivering in nothing but his underclothes, and Combeferre cracks open the window, the warm air floating inside the drafty room. It is a sign of Enjolras’ complete trust in Combeferre that he allows himself this much vulnerability.

“Let me know if anything hurts, alright?” Combeferre asks, wetting the first cloth in the still warm water Cosette brought. “Especially if you feel your breathing growing labored, I’m a bit concerned about how much Laudanum you’ve been given.”

He doesn’t press for the answer because he knows Enjolras’ limited use of words, the forced sound when he does manage it, is a sign of a severe level of trauma that might only grow worse with too much prying.

He cannot hide his surprise when Enjolras speaks again, but each aggrieved, stilted word feels like a new wound in Combeferre’s heart; it is such a far cry from Enjolras’ usual firm, lyrical speech, a voice mixed with words that make you feel as if you will burst from enthusiasm, from passion.

Words that light your very soul on fire.

But these words…

These words only douse his soul in sadness.

“Three…full doses,” Enjolras says, pushing the words out one by one. “And then…another…half.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre breathes, his voice tremulous. “Thank you for telling me. I’m hopeful that your spell earlier evacuated what wasn’t already absorbed, but if you can, let me know if it gets any more difficult to breathe.”

Enjolras nods, looking off into the distance again. Combeferre’s eyes rove over Enjolras’ form; he’s lost weight in the past few weeks from bed rest and his suppressed appetite, the skin under his eyes purpled from lack of sleep. 

He looks so…human.

Of course he’s as human as any of them; Combeferre knows that perhaps better than anyone, but sometimes Enjolras looks so ethereal, so otherworldly, so like a painting of a righteous archangel, that for some, it’s easy to forget.

But now…

Blood from his ruined clothes seeped through to his skin, and his legs in particular are streaked with red, his fingernails caked with dirt and blood, though his face is clean for the most part, which puzzles Combeferre.

What on earth _happened_? There is no sign yet of new injury, and this is far too much blood for residual bleeding, so Combeferre can only gather that this is someone _else’s_ blood.

Combeferre very carefully removes the dirtied bandage around Enjolras’ leg wound, relived to see that the wound itself doesn’t look inflamed or infected. There is some residual bleeding, but less than he initially feared. He gently cleans around the wound, wishing he could at least let Enjolras squeeze his hand every time he flinches in pain, but he needs both of his hands to do his work. Once the leg’s re-bandaged Combeferre washes the rest of the red-brown stains from Enjolras’ legs, running his hands up and down the strong, slender appendages and checking for any further injury of which he finds none. He cleans and bandages the shoulder wound, which begins healing much faster than the leg, washes the remaining dirt and blood off his face, and then moves to Enjolras’ hands.

“Do you have the energy to sit up for a moment?” Combeferre asks. “I need to lather up your hands.”

Enjolras silently complies, and Combeferre props him up against the pillows, wetting Enjolras’ hands before lathering them with soap, doing his best to ignore the angry red marks left by the iron manacles and concentrating on cleaning the blood out from Enjolras’ fingernails, which takes some doing. His eyes dart up to the small bruise on Enjolras’ face.

“You’ve been hit?” Combeferre asks before he can stop himself, rinsing the soap off in the bowl of warm water, wondering if this small piece of information will give him any clues about what occurred.

Enjolras nods again.

“Javert.” The word is so quiet, if there is any tone to it, Combeferre cannot hear it.

A fresh surge of fury floods Combeferre at the mere mention of Javert, yet he also cannot banish the man’s half-crazed laughter from his mind, cannot help but wonder at him releasing Enjolras to Valjean.

“Argued with him,” Enjolras says, a little louder, voice crushed with sorrow and still thick with drugs. But Combeferre clings to Enjolras’ new willingness to speak, no matter how much hearing the stunted words hurts him.

It’s the smallest bit of progress, and Combeferre smiles ever so slightly at the image of Enjolras, manacled hands, injuries and all, debating politics and philosophy with a police inspector after his arrest.

“You are a brave man, my friend,” Combeferre says, sincerity embalmed deep into every word. “I think you’re as clean as you’re going to get at the moment, want to try and get into this nightshirt?”

Enjolras allows Combeferre to help him into said nightshirt, sitting back on the bed, blankets pulled up to his waist, but he doesn’t make any moves to lie down and sleep again. Combeferre sits on the edge of the bed, still giving Enjolras his space, but watches him carefully.

“Would you like to talk?” Combeferre asks, folding his hands in his lap. “I’m not going to force you under any circumstance, only if you’re ready.”

Enjolras looks at him again, looks at him as if he’s actually seeing him for the first time since he’s returned to them. Tears gather on Enjolras’ lashes and at first he doesn’t seem to notice, but after a moment he lifts one hand to his face, thumb and forefinger pressing down on his eyes to prevent the tears from going any further.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre exhales. “It’s…You are the strongest person I’ve ever known, but please, allow me to be your strength right now. Speak freely, let me help.”

Enjolras gazes at him again, and then before Combeferre quite realizes it, Enjolras’ head is resting on his chest, hands grasping at the material of his sleeves. Enjolras is always tactile with their inner circle, but this is different, this is _desperate_.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre whispers. “It’s…I won’t say it’s alright, I won’t do such an injustice by you. But you can talk to me. You’re carrying a burden, and if you wish it, I will be here to help you carry it. We all are.”

“I…don’t…” Enjolras tries, pulling back again, and Combeferre takes a gentle hold of his arms, hands resting in the crooks of Enjolras’ elbows. “I…”

Combeferre stops for a moment. Perhaps taking the lead in the conversation will help Enjolras along?

“Was there some type of altercation while you were in the jail?” he asks, cautious. “Did someone attack you?”

Combeferre knows Enjolras is more than capable of defending himself; He’d seen it at the barricades in 1830 and he’d seen it a few weeks ago. If it meant protecting his friends, himself, or any defenseless person for that matter, Enjolras could would, and had killed, even though it ripped him up inside. Had some such event occurred in the jail? Did it affect Enjolras more severly outside the world of the barricade than it did within its confines?

It ripped them all up inside, fighting and killing their fellow countrymen, the blood and the violence and the death.

Combeferre loathed violence, but he also knew, as Enjolras did, that the only way to spark change in this climate _was_ to be violent. He knew it was necessary, and both hoped for a world where one day such means weren’t necessary, a world where the people possess the power to speak without needing violence, where natural progress could take the lead.

But that didn’t make it any easier on Enjolras’ heart, his mind, or his soul, and here was where Enjolras’ true strength lay: in his ability, in his willingness to do what other men could not in order to create a better world for everyone, even if it meant his own suffering, his own condemnation. He knows Enjolras as well as he knows himself, and he won’t ever forget watching Enjolras swallow back his emotion, his regret at the necessity, when Le Cabuc was on his knees, Enjolras’ gun pointed at his head. It was a fraction of a facial movement that only those who knew him well would see amidst the severe fury burning hot and cold all at once, but it was there nonetheless. Le Cabuc ruthlessly shot that shopkeeper, and likely would have taken another innocent life if given the chance, especially given that they’d later discovered he was a member of Patron-Minette; the brutal and immoral Claquesous.

Combeferre will never forget the intense melancholy in Enjolras’ eyes when he found him afterward near the edge of the barricade, as if all the sorrows of the world rested within them, mixed with the unwavering belief in the beauty of humanity, of the future.

Combeferre remembers his own words, words he will never regret.

_We will share thy fate!_

“No,” Enjolras says, the wilted voice tinged with the barest breath of determination pulling Combeferre back out of his musings.

“Was someone else in the prison injured?” Combeferre continues, jumping to the next possible conclusion.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, voice lifting a little as Combeferre catches on. “A…prostitute. Isabelle. Someone stabbed her. And I tried…I couldn’t…I…”

Enjolras’ voice trembles and breaks, the waterfall of emotion pouring forth and breaking on the rocks in one shattered, audible sob before he swallows the sound back down.

Combeferre instantly pulls Enjolras into his arms as he’d done with Courfeyrac earlier, and his friend feels so very frail in his embrace; and despite his delicate appearance, Enjolras has never _felt_ frail. He’s never _been_ frail, not in any sense of the word.

Enjolras draws sharp, deep breaths to prevent more sound escaping him, but the tears do flow silently from his eyes and onto Combeferre’s shirt.

“She was stabbed by a thief,” Enjolras tells him, words still faltering, but more fluid than before, now that the damn burst forth. “And I…I did my best to follow what you and Joly taught me about wounds, but Javert wouldn’t call for a doctor, not until…until it was too late.”

“She died,” Combeferre answers. It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Enjolras says breathlessly, trying to regain control of his voice. “Right…in my arms and I could do _nothing_. She was completely defenseless… I…”

“Oh Enjolras,” Combeferre replies, pulling him closer. “No one could have without the proper medical supplies. You can’t blame yourself.”

“They just didn’t _care_ ,” Enjolras says, emphasizing the last word. “And I…I was furious. I flew into a rage, I lost _complete_ control of myself, I’ve never…never lost in such a way before.”

“And so Javert drugged you?” Combeferre asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” Enjolras repeats. “I said…1something that bothered Javert and he…grabbed me…and I…foolishly tried kicking him away. Then he ordered the doctor to medicate me. Two doses. Then I blacked out.”

Enjolras’ whole body shakes from effort now, and Combeferre pulls back from the embrace, keeping a tight, reassuring grip on Enjolras’ shoulders.

“I had…flashbacks,” Enjolras says, meeting Combeferre’s eyes, and Combeferre sees the raw pain, the grief he feels mirrored there in Enjolras’. “I saw the blood and felt…felt like I was back at the barricade. I saw the images, saw our friends…and the pain in my leg and my shoulder afresh…I…and then Javert had his knife to my throat in front of all of you, I saw how terrified you were…and the drugs were so…strong…I…”

“Shhh,” Combeferre says, swiping at the tears in his own eyes. “You don’t have to tell me anymore right now, we can speak further later, you’re trembling and you’re feverish. Rest for me, alright?”

Enjolras agrees, and Combeferre arranges the pillows for him, taking his place in the chair next to the bedside. Enjolras takes his hand, and after a few minutes he’s asleep again, the pull of the ridiculous amount of Laudanum still holding sway.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he feels his own eyes grow heavy, when he hears a firm set of footsteps enter the room, when he hears another chair scrape across the hardwood.

“Sleep, son,” Valjean’s kind, calming voice says, carefully removing Combeferre’s spectacles. “Sleep.”

“I have…”

“I’ll watch him,” Valjean cuts in, placing a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re too concerned to sleep in your own bed, at the very least go lie down on the chaise. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

“You have to watch…”

“His breathing,” Valjean finishes. “I know. Sleep, Combeferre.”

Combeferre obeys, curling up not on the chaise lounge but beside Enjolras, their hands intertwined atop the sheets between them

* * *

After his unsuccessful attempts at getting access to Grantaire’s room, Feuilly wanders the halls of the colossal Gillenormand home, aimless, but deep in thought.

Enjolras’ half sob, half scream rings in his head, almost unrelenting, and anger at Javert, anger at _everything_ , pierces his soul.

He’s just so damn _angry_. It’s a quiet, reserved anger, but it’s still fiercely present.

Feuilly isn’t a stranger to anger; he was furious when his parents died, furious at the robbery that killed his father, furious at the cholera that stole his mother soon after. They’d been poor, they’d been desperate, but they’d been _together_.

And then he was another gamin alone on the streets.

But he turned his anger into determination, and with the help of a few kind souls, he taught himself to read, he taught himself to write. He yearned for the opportunity of a proper university education, and his anger at the government over being deprived of such chances because of station and class and money, grew.

So he turned that anger into a drive for politics and he learned about France, learned about Europe, learned about America, learned about every country he could. He found a passion in embracing the world that hurt him rather than shunning it in order that he might pave the way for a better existence for the people who lived in it, people who suffered the things he did and worse.

He turned his anger into art and painted fans, created beautiful pieces, no matter how much his hands hurt at the end of the day.

He channeled his anger so well that he hardly ever appeared outwardly angry, particularly since he’d met the Amis, since he’d found this second family, since they staved away his loneliness. If prompted he knows his friends would never label him as angry: impassioned certainly, enthusiastic, but mild-mannered and cool-headed unless very seriously provoked.

But now he feels the old anger bubble to the surface again like acid, hot and burning, mixing with the ever-present state of melancholy they’ve all experienced since the barricade fell, since losing their friends, since their lives were turned upside down and inside out.

Since Feuilly had half of his second family ripped from him, nearly losing Enjolras, the friend he respects and admires with every ounce of his heart, ripped open the still healing wound afresh.

He remembers Enjolras speaking from the top of the barricade, loose golden hair around his head like a halo as the sun hit the strands; he’d looked so unbreakable then, a quiet power emanating from every inch of him. Feuilly remembers Enjolras’ eyes falling on him, the smile on his lips as he spoke.

_Listen to me, you, Feuilly, valiant artisan, man of the people. I revere you. Yes, you clearly behold the future, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly; you adopted humanity for your mother and right for your father._

He’d blushed and batted Bossuet’s teasing hand away, but he’d also been indescribably touched, and made a point to clasp Enjolras’ hand when he saw him next, remembering hours long talks with Enjolras in the corner of the Musain, and how right and peaceful it always felt.

The memory of stepping up to Javert, of Javert pulling out his pistol, of Grantaire stepping up next to him, flashes in his mind. He sees Enjolras attempting to walk without limping as Javert drags him off, sees Enjolras’ feet give out from under him as Combeferre and Valjean try lifting him up off the ground, sees the knife at Enjolras’ throat.

Right now, Feuilly could cheerfully sock Javert in the face. Very cheerfully, and he isn’t much for brawls unless necessary. That, he muses, fondly, was more Bahorel’s line of work.

Yet Javert had let Enjolras go in the end, let them all go, and that confused Feuilly even more, though he cannot yet forgive the man for whatever caused this state in Enjolras.

He stops in his tracks at seeing a familiar face outside the closed door to Enjolras’ room, thought process interrupted.

“Grantaire?” he whispers. “What are you doing out here?”

“Listening,” Grantaire whispers back, eyes flickering up briefly in Feuilly’s direction, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Well, I don’t think spying on our friends is the best plan,” Feuilly replies, crouching down on the floor next to Grantaire. “Enjolras is sleeping and Combeferre is keeping watch alone now, because he sent Coufeyrac to bed, I saw him in the hallway a bit ago looking for the both of us, told him I’d find you myself. There’s…there’s nothing to do right now.”

“He isn’t sleeping anymore,” Grantaire mutters, and Feuilly notes the use of the pronoun rather than Enjolras’ name. “They’re talking. Quiet for a moment, I can hardly hear them as it is.”

“You were avoiding me,” Feuilly persists, not unkindly.

“Shhh.”

“Grantaire.”

“Feuilly, please,” Grantaire says, a frantic edge in his voice that concerns Feuilly. “I’ll…I’ll talk to you if you just let me listen for a moment.”

Feuilly sighs but relents, feeling uncomfortable with the entire situation. But he’s worried about Grantaire, saw his reaction to Enjolras when they’d rescued him, and while Combeferre and Courfeyrac are occupied with figuring out what happened to Enjolras, Feuilly will take it on his shoulders to watch over Grantaire.

And he has to admit, he wants to know how Enjolras is doing, desperate for any inkling of what might have happened while he was in Javert’s clutches. He’d rather hear it not on the other side of this door, he’s willing to wait, but Grantaire clearly does not possess the patience. Though he knows Combeferre certainly wouldn’t be angry if he found them sitting here like this, Feuilly still crouches on the balls of his feet next to Grantaire, poised to dash off should the door open.

“Was someone else in the prison injured?” Combeferre’s voice asks. It’s patient, gentle, and, Feuilly notices, the tiniest bit shaky.

He finds that sound sends a prickle of disquiet into his heart, because Combeferre always sounds certain, sounds confident.

But what he hears next unsettles him even more, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to dash through the door to see Enjolras for himself, but he also knows that might stop this tenuous process Combeferre’s attempting.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, in the same unfamiliar incoherent, heart-wrenching tone of voice. “A…prostitute. Isabelle. She was stabbed. And I tried…I couldn’t…I…”

And then Feuilly hears it, hears the sound of a single broken sob escaping Enjolras, the sound of him swallowing it back, the sound of his sharp breaths as he fights for control. There’s the sound of Combeferre moving forward on the bed, Enjolras’ breathing muffled against his shoulder.

Grantaire’s face freezes, and Feuilly knows it chilled the other man as frightfully as it has him. Perhaps worse, given Grantaire’s shocked, beaten expression.

And then Grantaire’s on his feet, running down the hall toward his room.

But Feuilly won’t let him get away this time.

“Grantaire!” he calls, keeping his voice as low as he can so he won’t alert Combeferre and Enjolras, or Courfeyrac, who needs his sleep, or Marius, who’s tending to Gavroche downstairs, making sure the little boy they all want to protect is alright after witnessing the horrific condition of one of his heroes. “Grantaire!”

Grantaire doesn’t heed him, but he’s also forgotten that Feuilly learned to run fast during the time he spent on the streets, and he hasn’t lost the ability. Feuilly takes the door handle before Grantaire flips the lock, and catches himself on the door frame, watching Grantaire delve frantically into a trunk on the other side of the room.

He seizes something and spins around, stopping short when he catches sight of Feuilly standing in the doorway, effectively blocking any further escape. He holds a wine bottle in both hands, clutching it so tightly his knuckles pop white.

Feuilly feels his mouth drop into a soft ‘o’. He steps forward resolutely into the room, wary of Grantaire’s potential to bolt.

Grantaire doesn’t move.

Feuilly wraps his own hands around the bottle. Grantaire doesn’t release it.

“You don’t want this,” Feuilly says, soft and empathetic, despite the anger coursing through his veins. He is not angry at Grantaire, he’s angry at everything that’s happened to Enjolras, at the injustice of it; he only wants to help Grantaire, and he doesn’t want his anger getting in the way, so he tries pushing it down, focusing on the friend in front of him.

Feuilly twists the bottle. Grantaire yields. Relief rushes through Feuilly even as Grantaire drops onto his bed, hands knitting into his hair, elbows on his knees, emanating defeat. It’s progress, Feuilly thinks, Grantaire barely fought him over the alcohol.

Feuilly puts the bottle down, out of sight on the other side of the room and kneels in front of Grantaire.

“Grantaire,” Feuilly repeats. “ _Please_ speak to me.”

Finally Grantaire looks him in the eye, and Feuilly sees how red Grantaire’s own are from tears. There’s no stench of alcohol about him, and his hands still shake from the withdrawal, even as he stuffs them in his pockets. Combeferre told them that some physicians suggested keeping higher levels of sugar in the blood while going through withdrawal, and he’d also said if the symptoms got out of hand, he’d give Grantaire very controlled doses of Laudanum to taper off slowly if the glass of wine at dinners didn’t serve. Feuilly only hoped the symptoms didn’t grow worse, because he’d heard of people suffering hallucinations and seizures, depending on how severe it was.

“You should be worrying about Enjolras,” Grantaire mumbles, looking back down again, shuffling his feet on the carpet. “I’m fine.”

“I _am_ worrying about Enjolras,” Feuilly answers, his friend’s name causing a sharp pang in his chest. “I’m incredibly worried. But Enjolras is well-tended right now, and I don’t want to crowd him. I’m also concerned about you. And you’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a fantastic liar,” Grantaire protests, and Feuilly senses the beginning of a long, ranting discourse on the topic intended to send the conversation veering off course. “Surely…”

“Grantaire,” Feuilly says, more firm, cutting him off before he begins. “I know you too well for these tactics to work. Just…just sit down and talk to me alright? Or don’t talk, we can simply sit here together if you like, because I don’t want to be alone, and I don’t think you do either. I know you’re upset about Enjolras, but please, don’t run from it or run from your friends.”

Grantaire releases a breath, gesturing to the pair of chairs in the corner of the room, and Feuilly sits down in one of them, relief sweeping through him. He observes Grantaire silently, giving the other man the opportunity to speak without further prodding.

“I…” Grantaire starts, folding his hands together tightly in his lap. “I have never been as frightened in my life as I was when we saw Enjolras with that knife to his neck, when we heard him make that _sound_ , when we saw him collapse, I…”

Grantaire trails off, clearly currently incapable of completing his thoughts, and Feuilly hears the violent emotion in his voice, hears him teetering on the edge of something. He tentatively reaches one hand over, laying it on Grantaire’s forearm. Grantaire jolts up at the touch, but he doesn’t jerk back, only hesitantly covers Feuilly’s hand lightly with his own.

“I cannot allow this world to put out that burning light of his,” Grantaire continues after a moment, voice husky. “But I fear…I don’t…my mind feels utterly unhinged and I will only make it worse for him because I’m not strong enough and nothing makes sense and all I can do is sit here and wallow in it, his scream ringing in my ears and…”

“Grantaire,” Feuilly whispers, squeezing his arm. “You will not make it worse, and you _can_ find it within in you to be strong.”

“I’m not like you, Feuilly. You rise higher in the face of adversity, in the face of a world that dashes your dreams,” Grantaire laughs, a harsh, grating sound full of self-loathing. “I have failed _every_ time…”

“That is in the past,” Feuilly interrupts. “I have seen you these past weeks; every time Enjolras needed you, anytime any of us needed you…”

“I couldn’t even help Combeferre carry him to the carriage,” Grantaire says. “All I could do was panic and let my fear get the best of me.”

“You are focusing on the negative,” Feuilly replies, a fierceness in his tone usually reserved for political debates. “ _You_ stood with Enjolras in front of the army general’s gun, _you_ carried him through the sewers, _you_ stepped in front of Javert’s gun with me. You’re attempting to quit your biggest vice so that none of us will have to worry for your health in the face of losing nearly half our friends. You have tried to be there for Enjolras ever since the barricade fell, I have seen the changes in you, my friend.”

“Because of _Enjolras_ ,” Grantaire insists. “And because of friendship of all of you. Those are the reasons for the changes, changes I couldn’t make until we nearly _lost_ Enjolras. And now I fear we _have_ lost him, Feuilly, he isn’t…”

“You did make the changes because of Enjolras and because of us, yes,” Feuilly says evenly. “But it’s because Enjolras sparked something that already lived within you, and the bonds between all of us held you together. Enjolras needs us _all_ now. He has always needed _all_ of us, he’s never hidden that fact. We all spark the fire, as he might say. And that includes you. We…we are a family Grantaire, and we will hold him up, put him back together, whatever is required.”

Grantaire nods, still looking uncertain, still looking slightly outside himself, but Feuilly feels the slight squeeze of his arm, an indication that Grantaire promises to try.

“As for sitting here idly and waiting,” Feuilly says, an idea popping into his head, an idea he’s been planting in Grantaire’s mind ever since they met. “Sometimes I find I need an outlet for myself, and usually that means either reading or painting. Sketching sometimes, too, and Valjean insisted on purchasing a few sketchpads, some pencils, even some small paints…”

“I don’t paint or draw anymore, Feuilly,” Grantaire says flatly, but he’s less snappish that he has been in the past when the subject came up. “You know that.”

“Now that _is_ a lie,” Feuilly remarks. “I snuck a look at some of the drawings you tried hiding in your rooms, once. Drawings of all of us together, drawings of Enjolras. They were beautiful, Grantaire.”

“I don’t _usually_ draw or paint anymore, then,” Grantaire answers.

“Well,” Feuilly says, taking his other hand now. “I am determined to change your mind about that. And sometimes, I’ve found, art is a balm for the soul in the times of our greatest strife.”

“Did you read that somewhere?” Grantaire asks, lips curving up into a wry half-smile.

“No,” Feuilly says, returning the smile. “It’s just the truth.”

Grantaire doesn’t respond, and returns to looking at his hands, so Feuilly gets up from his chair, heading to the door.

“Tired of me already?” Grantaire asks.

“Never,” Feuilly answers sincerely. “I’ll just be a moment.”

He leaves Grantaire, heading down the hallway to his room, and fetching one of the three sketchpads Valjean bought for him, along with the small set of oil paints and a few sheets of paper, then heads back.

“Feuilly, I’m not…”

“I’ll just leave them here with you,” Feuilly cuts in. “Just in case you change your mind. Now what do you say we go and find some tea and perhaps some sort of food? None of us have eaten, and I think Marius, Gavroche, and Cosette might appreciate our company. Then we need to sleep.”

“I’m not particularly hungry,” Grantaire answers, peering over at the art materials.

“I’m not either,” Feuilly admits. “But Enjolras would want us to take care of ourselves. He sacrificed a great deal to keep us safe, and I’m not taking that for granted.”

Grantaire meets his eyes and nods, following his lead down the stairs.

 


	25. On Time, Togetherness, and Terror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to ariadneslostthread, my wonderful beta reader and fandom spouse, because this chapter would not be what it is without her. Enjoy!

Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

 Chapter 25: On Time, Togetherness, and Terror

Courfeyrac awakes suddenly, heart racing in his chest. He sits up slowly, slightly dizzy, and pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table, steadying his hands. He breathes in deep so that his heart might calm. He’d had a dark, jumbled nightmare that he scarcely remembers even though he awoke just moments ago, but finds he’d rather not recall in any case.

Sunlight falls in sheaths across his floor, streaks of orange and pink spraying the sky outside his window. It’s early still, but he’d slept for nearly fifteen hours after Combeferre sent him to bed, he realizes when he looks at the clock. He’d woken up several times in the night, drenched in anxious sweat and tempted to jolt up from bed and go check on Enjolras, to check he’s breathing and alive and there. But he’d stayed, attempting sleep once more so that he wouldn’t be dead on his feet when he awoke, so that he might be able to do whatever was necessary to help Enjolras, to help Combeferre to help himself, to help anyone, because all he wants right now is to _do_ , to assist, to comfort, because if he sits here and thinks too much he fears he’ll go mad.

_It will be alright_ , he tells himself. _It will be alright. We are together._

Bossuet’s voice sounds in his mind, the familiar sound making his heart ache for missing him.

_“Who can ever say I’m truly unlucky,” Bossuet had said once during a late night at the Musain or the Corinth, Courfeyrac can’t remember which, a night when they’d convinced even Enjolras and Combeferre to put down their work, all of them sitting together, cravats loosened and feet propped up on the tables, soaking in the mere joy of togetherness. “When I have friends such as the eight of you?”_

Memories are a double-edged sword, Courfeyrac thinks, as he pulls on his dressing gown, hurting and healing in one fell swoop. His eyes fall on the unopened letter he notices someone slid under his door, from his parents no doubt. He pockets it, intending to read it once he’s sat down to breakfast. He hasn’t eaten for near twenty-four hours, he realizes, and thinks with a rush of worry that it must have been even longer since Enjolras ate, since he drank anything other than the half cup of tea upon his return yesterday or the bitter Laudanum forced down his throat.

Silence coats the house as he walks out of his bedroom, but it’s a better type of quiet than the previous evening, when it very much felt as if anyone feared making a single sound. Now there’s the peaceful calm of a sleeping household, but Courfeyrac feels an air of anxious worry slicing through nevertheless. The door to Enjolras’ room is cracked open, so Courfeyrac enters noiselessly; Valjean sits in a chair by the bedside, and Courfeyrac’s heart warms at seeing Combeferre sleeping next to Enjolras, hands intertwined as if Combeferre fears Javert will come once again and rip Enjolras from him in sleep.

“You convinced Combeferre to sleep, I see?” Courfeyrac whispers, standing next to Valjean’s chair.

“Hmm,” Valjean says, a small, close-mouthed smile on his lips. “He protested a bit, but he was falling asleep in this chair. Couldn’t quite get him to his own bed, however.”

“I’m not surprised,” Courfeyrac says, contemplating the two men whose souls are so intertwined with his own that sometimes he feels as if they are three parts of a whole. “If Combeferre hadn’t sent me to bed earlier I’d likely have piled in there with them. We aren’t shy with each other, the lot of us.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Valjean says fondly, a yawn marring his words, though he tries suppressing the sound.

“You have to be tired,” Courfeyrac says. “You haven’t slept for nearly two days, almost.”

“I have a knack for going without sleeping,” Valjean admits. “But Feuilly is actually coming in to take over for me once he retrieves some breakfast from downstairs.”

“Ah, good then,” Courfeyrac answers. “Did Enjolras…did he wake at all during the night, or?”

“Not once,” Valjean says, frowning slightly now. “At first I was concerned he didn’t, but I realized just how much Laudanum Javert must have given him, and that is an incredibly potent substance, so it’s not altogether surprising.”

Almost as if on cue, Combeferre’s eyes start fluttering open at Valjean’s words. They open fully after a moment, landing first on Enjolras, still sleeping beside him, watching the shallow but steady in and out of Enjolras’ breathing for a solid fifteen seconds before his eyes flit to Valjean, then to Courfeyrac.

“Good morning,” he says, voice thick with sleep as he sits up as carefully as possible so he doesn’t wake Enjolras, looking momentarily confused when he realizes he’s still dressed in his clothes from the day before. “What time is it?”

“Just after eight in the morning,” Valjean answers.

Combeferre nods, looking again at Enjolras chest rising and falling, breaths still shallow; there’s a spot of color returned to his cheeks now, the bluish tinge gone from his lips, but drops of sweat still gather at his hairline, and Courfeyrac knows not whether that stems from the Laudanum overdose or from a fever.

“His breathing’s still shallow, but it’s improving,” Combeferre remarks, and Courfeyrac knows he’s entering fully into medical mode right now in order to keep focus, because his emotions threaten to overcome him completely. Something in Combeferre’s eyes when he meets Courfeyrac’s own tells him that he found out a piece of what happened to Enjolras in the jail, tells him that they’ll speak later.

Courfeyrac moves over to other side of the bed where Combeferre sits, placing both hands on his friend’s shoulders.

“Why don’t you go change and freshen up?” he suggests. “Feuilly is coming to take over for Valjean here in a moment, and Feuilly’s hands are ever capable. Go freshen up and allow me to bring you something to eat.”

“Enjolras hasn’t…” Combeferre protests.

“Eaten?” Courfeyrac finishes. “I know. But you cannot do your best by him if you don’t take care of yourself, hmm?”

Combeferre almost chuckles at the familiar words, words that generally leave his own mouth rather than Courfeyrac’s and obliges with a nod. Courfeyrac musses Combeferre’s hair affectionately before returning to the other side of the bed, resting his hand delicately on Enjolras’ cheek, feeling the warmth of the slight fever tangible beneath his fingers. Then he turns toward Valjean, who watches him with keen eyes.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac says, releasing a breath. “In the madness of our return, I don’t think we thanked you properly; for saving Enjolras’ life, for somehow convincing Javert to leave…for not being furious with us for following you when you bid us not to.”

“It is…” Valjean starts.

“A favor that we have not an inkling of how to repay,” Combeferre finishes. “When I saw the knife pressed up against Enjolras’ throat, saw the mad look in J-that man’s eyes, I thought…” Combeferre pauses, unable to say Javert’s name and unwilling to articulate the horrific image Courfeyrac knows plagues all their minds, the image of Javert slicing the knife across Enjolras’ artery, of crimson blood spurting forth and splashing on the dirt. Of Enjolras sliding from Javert’s grasp and onto the ground, dead.

“I thought all might be lost,” Combeferre finishes. “But you talked him down, and I’m still not altogether sure how. But we are grateful. So very grateful.” Combeferre’s eyes flit to the still sleeping Enjolras, hand instinctively touching their friend’s arm.

“I know Javert,” Valjean says simply. “And I also knew you might follow me there.” He smiles slightly, an attempt at sternness in his tone. “And I’ll admit, it did worry me when you showed up, but you read the situation, you listened to me, that’s what’s important.”

Courfeyrac observes as Valjean tucks a stray blond stand behind Enjolras’ ear, smiling at the gesture; he knows it can’t be easy for the older man to let new people into his life like this, and it means more than Courfeyrac can quite express at the moment.

“Well, I’m off to find some breakfast for the both of us,” he says, looking back at Combeferre. “You go do as said, all right? Enjolras will be well-tended with Feuilly for a little while. I’ll bring the pastries to your room, shall I?”

Combeferre nods, clearly knowing that arguing with Courfeyrac would be rather fruitless.

“Get some rest monsieur,” Courfeyrac adds, clasping Valjean’s shoulder for a moment.

With that he turns to go, closing the door behind him lest the noise of the awakening household rouse Enjolras from his much needed sleep. He’s so deep in thought that when he reaches the top of the stairs he nearly collides with Feuilly. He carries a small tray in his hands, and it’s only Feuilly’s well-trained reflexes that keep it from toppling to the carpet.

“Oh Feuilly,” Courfeyrac says, hands darting out and steadying the tray. “I’m so sorry my friend, I wasn’t paying the slightest attention.”

“It’s all right, Courf,” Feuilly responds, an affectionate light in his weary dark brown eyes. “I think we’re all a bit out of sorts.”

Courfeyrac looks at Feuilly for a moment, truly looks at him, seeing the sprinkling of freckles spreading from his nose to his cheeks, tanned skin from his fondness for reading in the park when he had a spare moment, the ginger hair hanging in his eyes for lack of a haircut and not held back by his usual cap, the faded paint stains on his hands. Suddenly, he has the incurable desire to pull Feuilly forward and embrace him fully, telling him how much he means to him, how much he loves him, how much he appreciates him.

“Courfeyrac?” Feuilly presses. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, sorry,” Courfeyrac replies. “I was simply admiring your rather handsome face in the morning light. Ladies like artists Feuilly, we shall have to go out on the town in Avignon.”

“I’m sure you’ll see to it,” Feuilly says, chuckling.

“I certainly will,” Courfeyrac says. “And if you go out for a night of frivolity with me, Enjolras might follow, despite his protests when I try convincing him myself, because ‘if Feuilly goes well then we must _all_ go. If Feuilly makes time for a night out then we must _all_ make time’ is usually what I hear, even if ten minutes previously he protested that he was far too busy for a nice supper and a theater engagement.”

“Oh hush,” Feuilly says, chuckling still even as he blushes.

Silence falls between them for a moment, the gravity of the situation returning amidst their moment of lightheartedness.

“I’m going to take over for Valjean,” Feuilly says. “Have you been in this morning?”

“I have,” Courfeyrac answers. “I’m just going down to retrieve some breakfast for Combeferre and myself. I had to convince him to go freshen himself up and eat. Do you mind sitting with Enjolras for a bit while I take that to him?”

“Not at all,” Feuilly says. “Though I know both of you are loathe to leave him for even a moment. But it will do me good to sit with him for bit, convinces me he’s actually here with us.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, nodding. “Yes I know exactly what you mean. If he’ll have me, there will likely soon be a Courfeyrac shaped indentation in his bed, I imagine.”

Feuilly laughs again, and Courfeyrac revels in the sound. He wants to make Enjolras laugh like that, wants to hear the dignified, restrained chuckle turn into true laughter, sides shaking from mirth. It’s never occurred to him how similar Enjolras and Feuilly’s laughter is, but now he hears it, hears it so clearly it hurts when Bahorel’s loud, booming laughter rings in his head and mixes with Feuilly’s, melding memory and reality into one.

“Did you manage to speak with R?” Courfeyrac asks, forcing himself back into the present.

“I did,” Feuilly says, even more worry darkening his eyes. “Took some doing, but I managed to talk to him, I do hope it was helpful…”

“I’m sure it was,” Courfeyrac assures him, utterly sincere.

“He’s absolutely broken up over seeing Enjolras this way,” Feuilly replies. “I mean we all are of course, but you know Grantaire, sometimes it’s almost as if all his belief in life is tied up in Enjolras, and I’ll admit, I’m worried. The withdrawal is…worse than I initially thought; he’s more fragile than normal, and in light of all that’s happened…”

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Courfeyrac says, frowning in concern, feeling more anxiety take up residence in his heart, flowing through him like a toxin and adding to the growing prickling sensation in his stomach. “I’m relieved he let you in, at least. That may prove important later if he tries shutting us out.”

Feuilly nods again. “You go get those pastries for yourself and Combeferre,” he says, shooing Courfeyrac away. “I’ll take care of Enjolras for a bit.”

With that he goes, allowing Courfeyrac to place a bisou on his cheek before pushing the door to Enjolras’ room open with his foot.

Courfeyrac walks swiftly down the stairs with every intention of heading to the kitchen, where he suspects Madame Bellard and Toussaint are already up and setting out the breakfast pastries; the two women became fast friends, and are invigorated at having a whole household full of people to take care of, and Courfeyrac knows just how to smile at the two of them so they’ll give him the pastries fresh from the oven. He walks past the small sitting room nestled to the right of the stairs, the one they often frequent because of the particularly comfortable chairs, stopping short when he spots Marius sitting within, staring at something that causes Courfeyrac’s heart to contract painfully.

Enjolras’ cane.

It’s propped up against the chair their chief usually frequents; Gavroche picked the cane up from its place on the floor after Javert kicked it away from Enjolras, setting it up in the chair in the hope of Enjolras’ return.

No one has touched it since.

“Marius?” Courfeyrac asks softly, leaning in the doorway.

Marius jumps, clearly so lost in thought he didn’t hear Coufeyrac’s approach.

“Oh, Courfeyrac,” he says, looking up, his paler than usual face indicating that he hasn’t slept a great deal. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Clearly,” Courfeyrac replies, a half-smile quirking at his lips. He fully enters the room now, taking a seat on the ottoman of Marius’ chair. “Are you all right, my friend?”

Marius continues his vigil staring at the chair, mahogany cane propped up against the arm.

“Marius?” Courfeyrac tries, worry swooping through his stomach at his friend’s lack of response.

Marius jerks, eyes finally meeting Courfeyrac’s.

“I apologize,” Marius replies. “I was only…”

“Thinking of Enjolras,” Courfeyrac finishes when Marius trails off.

“Yes,” Marius answers, a lost glimmer in his eyes, mixed with a sadness so deep it adds to Courfeyrac’s own.

“As are we all,” Courfeyrac says, reaching for Marius’ hand and holding it tightly in his own.

“How is he?” Marius asks, squeezing Courfeyrac’s hand.

“Sleeping still,” Courfeyrac says. “Feuilly just took over Valjean’s shift. Combeferre awoke and went to freshen himself up; I told him I’d bring him up some breakfast in a bit.”

“You should do that then,” Marius says, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Don’t worry over me.”

“I shall worry over you if I so choose,” Courfeyrac chides. “Combeferre won’t mind, he might like a few minutes to himself while he cleans up. Talk to me.”

Marius nods, eyes flitting from Courfeyrac to the chair then back to Courfeyrac.

“I only…” Marius begins. “I just…”

“Take your time,” Courfeyrac says, taking Marius’ other hand in his own.

“I know I haven’t known Enjolras quite as long as the rest of you,” Marius says, finally completing his thought. “And I know I’m younger, less experienced in all of this, but I look up to all of you, look up to him, and seeing him like that yesterday, I never expected it, I suppose. He’s as human as the rest of us, I know, but sometimes it just…doesn’t seem it.”

“I don’t think any of us ever envisioned this situation,” Courfeyrac admits, turning around and gazing at the solitary cane.

_“I’m sure I don’t need a cane, Combeferre,”  Enjolras had said just a week ago._ _“I can manage the stairs on my own, I’m certain.”_

_“And I’m certain you **do** need one,”_ _Combeferre argued amiably_.

“ _Indulge us_ ,” _Courfeyrac had said._ “ _Allow us the role of worrisome old codgers. You should listen to your elders, Enjolras.”_

_“My elders!” Enjolras exclaims. “Combeferre is seven months older than me and you scarcely two.”_

_“See there? Elders.”_

_Enjolras’ lips had quirked up ever so slightly_

“ _Worrisome old codgers indeed, my elders_.”

“I was just remembering something,” Marius says, drawing Courfeyrac out of his thoughts. “It was when you graciously allowed me to lodge with you, it couldn’t have been more than the third or fourth time I’d met the Amis, and I went with you to a rally. I remember watching Enjolras, listening to him speak to the crowd outside the Musain, remember the power in his voice, how enraptured the people were.”

“I remember that day,” Courfeyrac says. “As I recall it turned into an accidental riot when the police arrived. Seemed to think we were causing trouble.”

“Yes,” Marius nods. “And one of the officers went for Joly, I think because he mistook the cane for a weapon, and then Enjolras was there, sliding in between them and taking the hit from the truncheon himself. An altercation followed, and…”

“Enjolras spent a few nights in La Force,” Courfeyrac says grimly. “That was the first time it ever happened, because we always did our best to show discretion so we could keep working, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Combeferre was worried sick.”

“ _You_ were worried sick,” Marius teases lightly. “Everyone was. But I just remember, Enjolras didn’t even look afraid when the officer threw him in the fiacre. And even if he was, it didn’t show in his expression. And everyone waited in your rooms the night Combeferre and Bahorel went to pick Enjolras up, and he was far more concerned about everyone else than he was himself, and he’s the one who had been in prison. And then he got back to work, like nothing had happened, that same undying intensity in his eyes. He seemed so unbreakable then.”

“Aside from his ribs,” Courfeyrac says. “He got kicked in the cell and bruised a few of them rather badly, nearly drove Combeferre and Joly to distraction when they put him on bed rest.”

Marius chuckles softly, but there’s still a great deal of unrest in his eyes.

“He’s…” Courfeyrac begins, but Marius has not quite finished his thought.

“I just, I rather despise the world for doing this to him,” Marius continues, tears brimming forth in his tone. “It’s exceedingly wrong somehow, I just…”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says, squeezing Marius’ hands with the utmost warmth. “I know exactly. But don’t lose faith in the world just yet; things may be admittedly awful at the moment, but Enjolras wouldn’t hear of you losing faith in the world, in people. Enjolras has been knocked down, that’s for certain, he’s bruised and beaten, but he _will_ get back up. With our help and for every hope-filled bone in his body, he will get back up. It’s just a matter of needing time. We all require some time, I think.”

Courfeyrac looks Marius directly in the eyes when he speaks, feeling a certainty spread into his own heart as he watches it flood Marius’ eyes.

Marius nods, releasing one of Courfeyrac’s hands and running a hand through his mussed hair.

“You are right,” he replies, and Courfeyrac feels his friend’s rapid pulse through the thin skin of his wrist. “You are absolutely right. I just…it pains me, seeing him that way. On top of everything else that’s happened, losing the others…”

Courfeyrac feels the familiar sock to the gut at the mention of their deceased friends, at the mention of the loss of the barricade, but instead of focusing on the swoop of an emotional pain so deep in manifests in a physical manner, he focuses on the friend in front of him, the friend who needs him right now.

“You are in fine company in these respects, my dear Marius,” Courfeyrac says softly. He pauses. “Might you like to see Enjolras? Even if he’s sleeping? It might do you some good. Perhaps we ought to find Gavroche as well.”

“Oh, no, I doubt he’s up to a flood of visitors in his room,” Marius protests, but Courfeyrac hears the change in his voice at the mention of the idea. “It’s alright.”

“I’m sure he’ll consent to a moment to put your mind at ease,” Courfeyrac says, knowing it’s true; Enjolras likely won’t want a crowd of people around him right now, but Courfeyrac’s certain he won’t mind a few short hellos if it means his friends rest easier.

“Well, if Enjolras allows it and Combeferre thinks it all right,” Marius concedes. “And I think Gavroche is out in the garden, I saw him dash out earlier, and he said he wanted to be alone for a little while.”

Concern for the resilient, street-smart little boy washes over Courfeyrac, but he also knows that if Gavroche wants some solitary time, then he will respect that.

“We should allow him some time to process,” Coufeyrac says. “But if you could catch him when he comes in, and wait for me? I’m going to speak with Combeferre and then see if Enjolras is awake and up to a hello. I think it might do all of you some good.”

“Thank you, Courfeyrac,” Marius says softly, quiet earnestness in every word, the unassuming intelligence Courfeyrac has always admired clear behind his eyes. “For everything.”

Courfeyrac smiles: he’s taken aback when Marius launches his gangly arms around his neck, but hugs him back tightly in return after a moment. Always a little awkward, always a little unsure, Marius isn’t nearly as tactile as Courfeyrac because of his generally nervous disposition, so when Marius shows physical affection, Courfeyrac knows it’s a sign of an outpouring of emotion. He’s noticed however, that Cosette’s entrance into Marius’ life has made quite a difference in this regard, and he smiles wider at the thought of their happiness. And then nearly laughs at the idea that Marius once referred to her as Ursula before he even knew her name.

“You are most welcome Marius,” Courfeyrac replies, words muffled slightly into his friend’s shirt, a thought presenting itself in his mind. “Did you still have your plans to propose to Cosette soon?”

Marius pulls back, looking confused.

“Well…yes, of course,” he answers, stretching out the words. “I was planning on taking a journey into Avignon in three days, actually, taking her to this restaurant I know she’ll love, but I with everything going on, with Enjolras…”

“The best thing you can do for Enjolras is to keep with your plans,” Courfeyrac says, firm but kind. “He wouldn’t want you interrupting such important plans on his behalf, and I’m sure it would make him happy to see the joy on yours and Cosette’s faces.”

“ _It is a bad moment to pronounce the word love. No matter I do pronounce it. And I glorify it_ ,” Marius whispers, repeating Enjolras’ words from the barricade.

“Exactly,” Courfeyrac says, patting Marius’ cheek. “I’ll be back in bit.”

Marius nods, opening the book of Lamartine poetry he’d just begun upon finishing a volume of English Romantic poetry. Courfeyrac walks past, hesitating for a moment before seizing the cane and tucking it under his arm. It wouldn’t bite him, certainly, and Enjolras would need it once he was up and about again. He bids good morning to Toussaint and Madame Bellard, both of whom ask after Enjolras, and pile more pastries than either he or Combeferre could possibly eat onto his tray, along with a pot of tea, and send him back upstairs. He walks carefully up the stairs this time, knocking when he reaches Combeferre’s door.

“Are you decent in there?” he teases.

“Quite,” Combeferre responds dryly. “Come in.”

Courfeyrac does, placing the tray down on the large dresser and turning toward Combeferre, who’s dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers, though he’s still devoid of a waistcoat or a cravat; if they’re just spending time in the house they usually go without jackets, especially given the growing summer temperatures outside. He might have slept for near fourteen hours, but worry and weariness writes a different story in the shadows under Combeferre’s eyes, in the creased lines of his forehead.

“Feel better for freshening up a bit?” Courfeyrac prods, hoping for a bit more than just an answer to the actual question he’s posing.

“A bit,” Combeferre affirms, gesturing for Courfeyrac to sit, taking one of the pastries and nibbling at the edge. “I didn’t know, but Valjean had the letter dispatched to Flora last evening, as soon as he could. So she should get the news in two days or so, three at most, if the post is slow.”

“You sound concerned about that,” Courfeyrac says, sensing an edge in Combeferre’s tone.

“Only that Aubry will inevitably hear the news as well,” Combeferre mutters, referring to Enjolras’ father. “He’s not a bad man, certainly, he means well, from what I can tell. And he’s no monarchist, how could he be, really, what with his wife’s American lineage, but he does _not_ understand Enjolras, not in the slightest.”

“Thinks his son is wasting his life,” Courfeyrac chimes in, feeling for the letter in his dressing gown pocket and pulling it out, thumb running over the paper. He’d read the letter while he waited for the tea to brew. It was a request from his father for his return home, and a plea from his mother. Courfeyrac still speaks to his father, as their fights have not yet reached that level, but he knows exactly how Enjolras feels in this respect. Combeferre’s eyes catch on the letter, but he lets the matter rest at seeing the expression on Courfeyrac’s face. Both of them know Courfeyrac won’t be returning home, at least not for more than a few days’ visit, and it won’t be at present, but he will need to write his family. Courfeyrac envies Combeferre a bit in this moment; Combeferre’s parents are merchants who own a successful business in Arras, and though they worry for their son’s activism, surely have asked him not to risk his life, they support him. They’d hoped he would take over the business, and while slightly baffled at Combeferre’s medical ambitions, they agreed to pay for his schooling. Combeferre’s the black sheep of his family, but he’s a more accepted black sheep.

“And their last meeting was unpleasant, to say the least” Courfeyrac continues. “I’ll never forget how quietly furious Enjolras when he returned from that visit.”

“He’s seen Flora, seen his grandmother plenty of times,” Combeferre says. “But he hasn’t seen Aubry since that day, since that massive argument, that literal and metaphorical slap in the face, that day he told Enjolras he was wasting his life, that he was a monumental disappointment.” Combeferre sighs. “He wanted Enjolras to sit for the bar, join a firm, get married to a noble woman, and eventually inherit the estate and move back to Marseille and live a quiet life. Doesn’t seem to understand that the politics, the republicanism, the revolution, is not just some youthful passing fancy. All of that _is_ Enjolras.”

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, taking a sip of the tea Combeferre pours him. “He did pass the bar, flying colors and all, at the same time as me. And he would have joined a firm if he did not become a fugitive shortly after, but I doubt it would have been the sort of firm his father would choose. And if Aubry thinks Enjolras is the sort to marry a woman and move to the countryside and settle down with children to live some sort of quiet life, then…”

“He doesn’t know Enjolras,” Combeferre finishes.

“No,” Courfeyrac replies. “But let us not worry about that right now, all right my friend? Let us focus on what’s in front of us. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Combeferre says, far too quickly.

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says, uncharacteristically stern. “You are a most frightful liar. If you do not at least admit your own distress right now, you won’t be able to help Enjolras through this. And he needs us.”

A half-smile tugs at Combeferre’s lips, but it’s wrenched with melancholy, and suddenly it seems as if Combeferre fights for his composure. Courfeyrac moves from his chair, hastily squatting in front of Combeferre, who pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes. Observant as he is, Courfeyrac knows when both of his best friends are battling tears; Enjolras presses his thumb and forefingers against his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Combeferre does this. Coufeyrac takes Combeferre’s face in his hands, forcing Combeferre’s gaze to him.

“I’m just so damned angry,” Combeferre says, voice gravely. “I want to find Javert and I…I want to…”

“Make him hurt the way he’s hurt Enjolras?”

“I…yes,” Combeferre admits. “But that’s…it’s horrible. I shouldn’t even think that, but he made this so much _worse_.”

“It’s only natural to feel that way,” Courfeyrac says, resting his head against Combeferre’s own. “I feel that way. What happened in that jail, Combeferre?”

“A prostitute was wounded,” Combeferre explains. “And Enjolras tried helping her, tried everything but they wouldn’t call for a doctor until it was too late. She died in his arms. And then he said he completely lost his temper on Javert, said he’d never lost control in such a way, and that led to an altercation with Javert, hence why they started drugging him.”

“How many doses?”

“Three and half in less than eight hours,” Combeferre answers, grim. Combeferre closes his eyes as Courfeyrac slides the spectacles on the top of his head, massaging his temples for a moment.

“Christ,” Coufeyrac mutters, continuing his ministrations, and Combeferre leans into the touch. “It’s no damn wonder he was covered in blood and completely out of sorts.”

Silence falls; there are so many things to say, and yet they cannot all be said in one moment.

“We’d best get back to him, I think,” Combeferre says, running a hand through Courfeyrac’s bed-head curls. “Thank you.”

“As ever,” Courfeyrac says. “Lead the way.”

They enter, Combeferre still shoeless and Courfeyrac still in his dressing gown, and find Feuilly whispering softly to a just awakening Enjolras, his finger marking the place in a volume on Polish politics buried deep within the rather expansive library contained within the Gillenormand home. Enjolras’ hand grasps Feuilly’s free one securely and there’s a wan smile on his face, but Courfeyrac’ sees his friend’s rapid breathing, the darting eyes: there’s every sign of panic on Enjolras’ features, and that’s not something to which Courfeyrac is accustomed. He’s seen fleeting panic rush across Enjolras’ face, seen him swallow it, seen him bury it deep beneath his eyes, mostly in the midst of both of the barricades they fought upon. But it was always gone as quick as it came, action taken, crisis handled, so seeing this unbridled, barely controlled panic in Enjolras’ demeanor unsettles him.

“Ah, you’re back,” Feuilly says, turning toward the door, and Enjolras’ eyes follow him, landing on first on Courfeyrac, then Combeferre.

His breathing slows just a fraction.

“We have returned from our gallant quest to find nourishment in the far off land that is the kitchen,” Courfeyrac says, setting the tray down with a dramatic flourish in the barest hope of drawing just the whisper of a laugh from Enjolras.

Enjolras looks up at him; a near silent, nervous chuckle escapes him, mixed with the smallest hint of genuine amusement trapped within the confines of his haunted eyes.

“Enjolras was just mentioning his hunger,” Feuilly says, squeezing Enjolras’ hand. “So you’ve returned just in time.”

Courfeyrac sees Enjolras’ free hand trembling, eyes boring into Combeferre’s, watching the latter seat himself wordlessly on the opposite side of the bed and take Enjolras’ hand in his own without even breaking the conversation.

“When was the last time you ate? I thought to ask when I checked you over but you were so exhausted I couldn’t bear to force you awake any longer than necessary.”

“I…” Enjolras thinks for a moment. “Before…before I was arrested.”

Forty-eight hours, Courfeyrac thinks with a swoop of anger. Forty-eight hours. They hadn’t even given him a crust of bread while he’d been in jail. Nothing.

“Well let’s start off with the tea, shall we?” Combeferre says. “And see how that sits. Then we can try a croissant. Does that sound fine?”

Enjolras nods his assent.

“Well, I’m going to go and see if I can rouse Grantaire,” Feuilly says. “Now that I know you are in capable hands, Enjolras.”

“Thank you, Feuilly,” Enjolras says, a true smile lighting up his face now, a smile sending the tiniest rush of relief through Courfeyrac’s veins.

“Any time,” Feuilly says, and Courfeyrac hears the tremor in his voice, sees the way his eyes linger on Enjolras’ face before he ducks his head and exits, leaving them.

Enjolras’ pulse and breathing slow visibly under Combeferre’s touch, slow even further once Courfeyrac sits down on the bed beside him, but as the door closes Enjolras presses a hand to his heart and breathes out slowly a few times, exhaling huffs of air in ragged gasps.

"What is wrong with me, Combeferre?” Enjolras asks, voice shaky with nerves. “I can't quite…I don't…you weren’t here and I just…panicked.”

"Stress, and trauma," Combeferre explains calmly, beginning his usual checks which calms Enjolras more in their familiarity.  "And probably the fact that I slept in this bed with you all night, and you suddenly found I wasn’t here. It’s no shock you’re having problems with anxiety given all that’s happened, but it will all pass I assure you. You _do_ sound better this morning, damn Laudanum finally wearing off, I think."

"How long have I been asleep?”

"You slept for about five hours before I woke you yesterday afternoon to check you over, then another fourteen or so, I believe.  Are you feeling better for it? "

Enjolras nods distractedly, eyes on his hands, examining them, looking lost. 

Combeferre’s hand covers Enjolras’ again, warm and familiar and safe, and Courfeyrac follows his lead, reaching for Enjolras’ other hand. 

"Do you remember coming home?" Combeferre asks, and Courfeyrac hears the trepidation, the worry, the love running through his tone.

Another nod and Courfeyrac hopes this isn't a return to the silence of yesterday before Enjolras speaks quietly.  "Yes.  I...” he pauses, the memories playing out against the thin skin of his eyelids. “Thank you,” he says, opening them again.

“You are most welcome,” Combeferre replies, voice almost a whisper, as if he doesn’t trust its ability to remain stable. He clears his throat, running his thumb up and down the skin of Enjolras’ hand in a motion of reassurance when he speaks again.

“You’re still feverish but not alarmingly so, and your breathing is still a bit shallow for my liking,” Combeferre admits. “And I know you must be in pain, but I want to avoid any more Laudanum for another twenty-four hours at least, just to be careful, and then we can start giving you doses again as needed. But I’d like to put you on bed rest for a few days. You’ve been through an ordeal on both a physical and emotional level.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, gazing rather longingly at the tea and the croissant on the silver tray. “Whatever you think is best. Whatever you wish.”

Combeferre’s eyes flit up and meet Courfeyrac’s for the briefest moment; Enjolras would give into Combeferre or Joly’s medical suggestions, or when it came to it, orders when bothered enough, but _never_ this easily, not once.

Courfeyrac hands over the cup of tea and Enjolras takes it, but his hands still tremble badly enough that the tea splashes over the edge.

“Dammit,” Enjolras breathes, but allows Courfeyrac to hold it for him, hungrily gulping down the tea.

“Marius and Gavroche were asking after you,” Coufeyrac begins once Enjolras drains the cup. “And I was wondering if you might be up to letting them briefly say hello, and it’s perfectly fine if you’re not, Enjolras, I want to be clear on that.”

“I might only be able to manage a few minutes,” Enjolras answers. “But if seeing me would make them rest easier, I’m glad to do that. Is that all right with you, Combeferre?”

“Perfectly,” Combeferre says, busying himself with buttering half the croissant. “Only please let us know when you tire? Whether that’s physically or emotionally.”

Enjolras nods again, and Courfeyrac presses a kiss to his forehead before darting downstairs once more. But he’s only just returned with Marius and Gavroche in tow when Feuilly darts back into the room, clearly distressed, several pieces of sketching paper twisted in his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, breathless and apologetic. “But…Combeferre, Grantaire, he’s…” his eyes rove toward Enjolras, and it’s obvious he doesn’t want to burden his friend further.

“What is it Feuilly?” Enjolras asks, seeing the expression, but clearly wanting Feuilly to know it’s all right to speak in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s asking for you, Enjolras, begging… and he’s burning up,” Feuilly says, looking at Enjolras before turning to Combeferre. “He’s…he’s hallucinating, but he can’t or won’t say what he sees but…Combeferre, look at this…” Feuilly pushes the handful of drawings he’s clutching into Combeferre’s hands.

“What?” Courfeyrac says, speaking first. “Hallucinating? Why?”

“The alcohol withdrawal,” Combeferre says, eyes roving over the pictures with a furrowed brow as he instantly rises. “That mixed with the trauma of the past few days, it isn’t surprising…I should have… take me to him Feuilly, please.”

“I’m coming,” Enjolras says, direct and without mincing words, and despite the situation, the familiarity of it calms Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre chides half-heartedly. “I don’t know…”

“Please, Combeferre, if Grantaire’s asking for me I should go to him,” Enjolras replies, sounding more confident than he has all morning, more like himself the moment he realizes one of their friends needs help, because it’s a purpose, it’s _action_ , and it allows Enjolras an escape from his mind, a chance to help someone who means a great deal to them all. “I will do _exactly_ as you instruct, I will stay out of the way if you tell me to do so, and if you ask me to leave, if my presence exacerbates Grantaire’s hallucinations, I will go the moment you say the word.”

Courfeyrac watches the two of them, watches them survey each other, but both men know that Enjolras’ presence will likely do more good than harm, and Courfeyrac sees Combeferre relenting. Combeferre nods after a moment, and Gavroche, spotting the cane where Courfeyrac posted it by the door, runs over and retrieves it, handing it to Enjolras.

“Thank you very much Gavroche,” Enjolras says, offering the little boy a smile, and Courfeyrac moves to his other side, taking the weight, because he knows how much even a simple trek down the hallway hurts Enjolras at this moment, hurts the man who mere weeks ago could probably hold his own against Bahorel in a brawl. “Would you mind waiting here with Marius until I get back?”

Gavroche shakes his head, hugging Enjolras’ waist briefly before letting go and stepping back toward Marius. And with that they’re limping off down the hallway to something Courfeyrac dreads, Combeferre leading the way.

* * *

 

Paralysis pinches every nerve in Grantaire’s body.

He cannot move. His eyes are fixed, wide and staring at a point on the floor before him as blood seeps into the carpet, over its edge and a pool of it creeps closer and closer to him. It is Apollo’s blood, red and vibrant and vicious in every way the corpse it exits isn’t.

“I’ve killed him Grantaire,” the voice of the beast hisses, the mythical Python of Delphi he scarcely remembers drawing in his manic, sleepless state after eating with Feuilly, Marius, and Gavroche, but somehow now his drawings have come to life, all of them, and six separate monsters stare down at him, surrounding the person they’ve murdered.

“No,” Grantaire insists, closing his eyes, but that only shuts out the visual terrors, because he cannot shut his ears. “No, Apollo defeated you. You were the first monster he ever defeated. You are darkness and hopelessness and he is light and belief and, you…”

“He is dead!” it hisses again. “He is dead and it is for the better, because he was broken, bound to turn dark and bitter and _cynical_. Just like _you_.”

“No!” Grantaire shouts. “ _No_. That would never happen, not in a thousand years, not for anything. He will pick up the pieces, we will _help_ him pick them up. And I am not…I am _not_ all of those things…cynical yes, self-sabotaging, but not dark, _no_ , not bitter…I _try_ , I am trying, I am giving up the excessive drink, I _want_ to believe, I believe in him…I _do_ …”

Grantaire stops, eyes finally falling on the victim of these creatures. His heart stills in his chest, breath held tight. He cannot. He cannot be living if Apollo is dead. He cannot exist without Apollo and Apollo must be alive and burning and glorious. The corpse is not. It is Apollo, without doubt, mortal flesh in wicked mimicry of a god brought to earth. A mortal shell cracked along with the shield bearing his insignia. His hair is loose, splayed around his head like a halo, blood rapidly soaking through the blonde locks as it oozes from a wound on his forehead. His lips are white and still, another trickle of blood from their corner, stark and vivid against the paleness of his skin.

His throat is exposed, smooth and elegant save the bloody gash which gapes just above the hollow – now filled with blood. His shirt is open, fang marks deep and sick into the skin of chest, yet more bloody his shirt in ever growing roses of deepest scarlet. His shoulder, just visible beneath the gape of his collar is a mass of burnt flesh and bone from the creature’s fire. Though his trousers are black, they are dark and wet with blood, ripped and ruined with holes every few inches, the blood making them stick to his skin. He is broken.

Dead.

No no no no, not broken not dead.

Grantaire gets on his knees, ignoring the creatures whispering hateful thoughts in his ear, and shakes Apollo’s body.

But beneath his hands Apollo turns into Combeferre, into Coufeyrac, Feuilly, Marius, Gavroche, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Jehan, Cosette, Valjean, Adrienne, his brother, and then back to Apollo. 

“No!” he screams, jumping back. “They are not all dead, I know that. They are not. You cannot convince me, no.”

Stumbling backwards again he presses his back against the wall, a sob wrenching from his throat.

“Oh,” one of the Pythons says, slithering close. “I think I can.”

* * *

 

Combeferre takes the lead.

He pushes open the door, and they are greeted by a floor scattered with sketches, some half-done, some complete, but they’re all the same figure. It resembles a half dragon, half python, a drakon, triggering a memory in the back of Enjolras’ mind from the Classics lessons he’d received as an adolescent in boarding school.

“I don’t permit you to die, Apollo,” Grantaire says as he rocks back and forth, eyes fixed on what appears a complete drawing, still of the same mythical creature Enjolras can’t yet place, but also featuring the form of a blond-haired man, Apollo’s insignia etched on his shield and the sun shining radiantly behind him in spatters of yellow oil paint. Blood and bite marks body cover his body, and it’s clear he’s dead. “You have not killed him, you foul monstrosity! I wouldn’t have allowed it, you can’t…”

Grantaire pauses, clearly hearing some sort of reply.

“No! You can’t…Apollo is stronger than you…than me…he…” Grantaire’s chokes out words in a flood of incoherent syllables, and Enjolras feels his heart pounding in his chest, feels his face heat from an oncoming wave of panic he refuses to let drown him.

“Hello, Grantaire,” Combeferre says, gentle, striding over to Grantaire, who sits on the floor surrounded by the battering of frightful sketches. Grantaire whips around, clearly having not heard them enter. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, terror flashing like lightning within them. He looks up at Combeferre, all the horrors of his imagination written clearly across his terrified face. “I’m just going to take a little look at you.”

Grantaire jumps back, but Combeferre doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t jerk away and an outpouring of admiration for his friend nearly overcomes Enjolras. Grantaire’s eyes track Combeferre’s hands as they feel his forehead and check his pulse, but they dart back to the drawings on the floor every few seconds. Enjolras hears Combeferre muttering to himself, but the dark voices in Grantaire’s head overcome the sound of Combeferre’s words, so he doesn’t notice.

“Diaphoretic. Fever. Tremors. Hallucinations. Hypertensive. Fear. Palpitations…”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says, his voice soft as the most welcoming feather pillow. “Grantaire, can you tell me what you see?”

 “What do I see?” Grantaire asks, biting out a sardonic laugh. “Combeferre you are the most intelligent man in the room, but your vision must be growing worse if you cannot see this beast talking to me.” He points down at the drawing and Enjolras’ eyes follow, seeing the bared teeth of the creature, the blood gushing from nearly every crevice of Apollo’s body.

“Who is speaking to you, Grantaire?” Combeferre asks, kneeling down next to their friend, voice still gentle.

“The Python of Delphi, of course!” Grantaire exclaims. “Don’t you know your mythology, dear guide?” he asks, jumping back suddenly as if he sees the creature hissing at him, sees it blowing fire. He grabs Combeferre’s shoulders. “He’s come to kill Apollo don’t you see, Combeferre? Don’t you _see_? You have Athena’s intellect, but I don’t know if even you can save him from this darkness. I’m sure Feuilly had no way of knowing that lending me a sketchpad would result in a monster coming to life! Dubious creature would have found a way regardless: it uses other people’s kindness to its advantage.”

And then Enjolras remembers.

The Python of Delphi was the very first monster Apollo defeated, and it was the time Grantaire mentioned this story that he first called Enjolras by that name. Bahorel had brought Grantaire along to one of his boxing lessons with Enjolras, and upon witnessing Enjolras hold up well against Bahorel’s strategy, despite their significant differences in size, he’d said the words that now sock Enjolras straight in the gut.

  _Well Apollo, it certainly appears as if you could hold your own against the Python of Delphi, with that anger I sense in you. There’s some talent, too, so perhaps you can even slay the beast, I daresay, if you keep taking lessons from this rogue_.

Grantaire reaches for the drawing and rips it to shreds, jumping back again, a scream erupting forth from his lips as he kicks the other sketches away, paper flying through the air.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says, steadying him, desperately trying to calm him. “Nothing’s going to happen, I promise you. You are ill, my friend, from the alcohol withdrawal. It’s called Delirium Tremens, and it can cause hallucinations. There’s no beast, I swear to you. And Enjolras is right here, do you see?” He uses his actual name, Enjolras supposes, in an attempt to draw Grantaire back into the realm of reality, if possible.

Grantaire wrenches his eyes away from the drawings, squinting in Enjolras’ direction, his just barely evening out. At seeing Grantaire’s expression Enjolras takes hold of the bed-post, knuckles popping white as they grasp the cane

“Enjolras don’t…” Courfeyrac protests as Enjolras lowers himself awkwardly to the floor, very obviously in physical discomfort.

“Help me, Courfeyrac.” A sliver of the authority and power Enjolras usually commands implores Courfeyrac to assist, and he does so, taking Enjolras’ weight and hoping to spare him from most of the pain. Enjolras bites his lip against the brief wave of sharp agony, focusing back on Grantaire.

“It’s alright, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, at the panicked look on Grantaire’s face. “I just need a moment.”

Combeferre, seeing Enjolras’ tactic, turns Grantaire toward Enjolras, though it takes a moment, as every few seconds Grantaire covers his ears, eyes darting back toward the pile of drawings. Combeferre squats beside Grantaire, surveying him intently. Feuilly, seeing Enjolras’ shoulders trembling from the effort of walking, places two warm hands upon them, and Enjolras feels his friend’s determination rush through his own veins.

“It’s going to kill you Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers, razor-cuts of pain indenting each syllable. “Don’t let it kill you, don’t. You’re not real, you can’t be real, it’s killed you, I saw it, and now it’s sent your ghost here to haunt me.”

“Permit me?” Enjolras asks, reaching out his hands for Grantaire’s own even as he feels his own personal monster of panic roaring to life in his chest. He’s never felt this way, has never fallen victim like this to what he’s heard medical professionals refer to as hysteria. He’s felt monumental fear before of course, but he’s confronted it, swallowed it until the crisis was handled, but even then it was not like this…this feels like the horror he experiences in his nightmares, unabated and intensified a thousand times, irrational, prickling, and raw.

Grantaire nods, closing his eyes against the specters jumping in and out of his line of vision, and holds out his hands. Enjolras takes them, placing one on his healing shoulder, and the other gingerly against the wound on his thigh, which still throbs with the effort of just walking down the hallway, even with the cane and Courfeyrac’s assistance.

“Do you feel that?” Enjolras asks. “I’m no ghost, I’m just as alive and human as you are. I’m here with you Grantaire, I’m…” The world whole almost escapes his lips, but it tastes virulently like a lie, because he does not currently feel whole, and he will not lie to Grantaire. “I’m here. I’m getting better. We’re here with you, all alive.”

”Not all,” Grantaire protests. “Not all. Joly is dead. Bossuet is dead. Bahorel is dead. Jehan is dead.”

It is undeniably true, and each of their friends’ names stabs Enjolras deep in the gut and twists, but he nods nevertheless because he wants to help Grantaire, wants to calm him and soothe him if he can. Enjolras remembers his own hallucinations when his fever was so high it nearly killed him just weeks ago, remembers the terrifying visions from his dreams, a downpour of empathy raining down upon him.

“They are. But I am not. Courfeyrac lives. Combeferre lives. Feuilly lives. Marius and Gavroche live.”

Grantaire opens his eyes again, blinking rapidly several times, hands lingering on Enjolras’ wounds before moving to his chest, staying there for a moment while he feels Enjolras’ heartbeat, then moves them both to his face, carefully taking hold as if Enjolras is a piece of fragile china.

“I won’t break if you touch me,” Enjolras says, mirroring Combeferre’s tone. “No glass, just flesh and bone.”

Grantaire holds his face a little firmer, thumbs running across his cheeks before moving to his forehead and picking up the little beads of sweat gathering there, feeling the heat beneath Enjolras’ skin.

Grantaire freezes.

“Fever! Infection…it’s back, it’s…”

“R,” Enjolras says, his uncommon use of the nickname drawing Grantaire’s attention. “It’s not infection. Yes, I have a small fever, but it is not like before, I swear to you. Combeferre says it is…stress and…trauma. My body has been through…a lot,” Enjolras says haltingly, still struggling to admit even this weakness. “Do you not trust Combeferre’s word? I know I do.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen again, gaze flitting frantically between Enjolras and Combeferre and back again.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre interjects carefully. “It’s…”

“You’re on fire!” Grantaire shouts. “The drakon’s set you on fire from the inside out. I knew it, I knew, they’re clever beasts, they know better than mortals and gods alike. You cannot kill the fire with an arrow, Apollo, you cannot…”

He bolts up, making for the water pitcher on his nightstand, but Feuilly stops him in his tracks, taking hold of his arms and Combeferre moves to help. Enjolras’ breath hitches in his chest and he cannot get air, he cannot think properly, the hot knot of anxiety in his stomach finally exploding and sending an uncontrollable flood of burning nerves through his system like volcanic lava. He swallows, breathing in and out sharply through his nose, focusing on Grantaire, focusing on everything occurring in front of him.

“We have to put it out!” Grantaire screams. “It’s going to kill him!”

“Feuilly, if you would, please, there’s a bottle of Laudanum sitting on my dresser fresh from the chemist,” Combeferre says, carefully holding Grantaire’s arms down as he and Feuilly place him on the bed. “The alcohol content in it should be enough to abate the symptoms.”

“Enjolras please let Courfeyrac help you back to bed, all right? I need you to let him get you calm, and then get some food in you, no matter how small the amount.” Comberre requests, a worried, torn expression gleaming in his eyes; he wants to help them both at once, but Grantaire’s need is currently far more pressing, but Enjolras knows Combeferre sees the growing flush in his cheeks, the copious amount of sweat, the trembling of his hands, the barely suppressed alarm, and for Combeferre’s sake, Enjolras holds it all back as best he can, heeding him as promised. “I’ll check back in as soon as I get Grantaire settled and sleeping.”

“Don’t take him away!” Grantaire shouts. “Don’t…please!”

“He’s just going down the hall so I can help you,” Combeferre says, taking the handkerchief from his pocket and wiping away the sweat running down Grantaire’s face with the utmost care. “No one’s taking him away, he just needs rest like you, I promise.”

It takes every ounce of strength Enjolras possesses to walk out of the room and away from Grantaire, takes every ounce of trust he has in Combeferre, because he knows his friend is right, knows it as sure as he hears the thunk of the cane on the hardwood as he leaves, Courfeyrac bearing even more of his weight.

Courfeyrac whispers something into Marius’ ear as they pass, and Marius pulls Gavroche carefully by the hand and away from Enjolras’ room, immensely concerned looks marring both their faces.

Guilt seizes Enjolras in its vice grip, but he knows they should not see him this way, knows it best that the youngest of their group return a bit later when he’s recovered from this, when he’s calmer, when he can reassure them.

He cannot get Grantaire’s terrified screams out of his head.

The barricade changed Grantaire, changed all of them, and Grantaire is trying to quit this because of those changes, because of that strength Enjolras always knew was somewhere within him, and this…Enjolras doesn’t want this holding Grantaire back, not when he’s tried so hard already, not now.

“Sit on the side of the bed there,” Courfeyrac says lowering him gently onto the mattress. “And put your head between your knees and try and breathe deeply and slowly, okay? Joly taught me this once, and we can’t go wrong with Joly’s advice, right?”

Enjolras obeys, feeling Courfeyrac’s wonderfully familiar hands on his back, Courfeyrac’s forehead against his, willing his heart to slow, his breathing to even out, the shaking to cease.

“That’s right,” Courfeyrac says. “Just breathe with me, Enjolras. Just breathe. It will be okay, we will get Grantaire through this, we have lost much but we are together, and we will strive forward with our friends’ memories forever in our hearts, every day. You will be yourself again, I promise you.”

The words etch themselves across Enjolras’ heart, his mind, his soul, in glowing, golden lettering, permanent in Courfeyrac’s perfect script. He hears his own sure voice in his head:

_All will be harmony, concord, light, joy, and life…_

And then he hears Jehan’s voice from his dream, hears it clear as he hears his own ragged breathing:

_Nothing can break you, not even this, not any of it…You are cracked, you are splintered, you feel as though you’ll never in your life get put back together again. But you will, because your hope burns so deep inside you, Enjolras, so deep, that no matter how damaged, how hurt, how broken and shattered you feel, you will always find yourself again… You have to let our friends put you back together._

He holds tighter to Courfeyrac until finally, they breathe as one.


	26. Illuminating Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello all! Thank you to everyone reading! This chapter ended up being extra long, so I hope you enjoy! Oh, and random side-note, but I’ve gotten some messages from people finding me on tumblr and not knowing I was the same person writing this story until they found me, since my screen names aren’t the same, so if you’re on tumblr, I’m KCrabb88 over there.

  Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

  (Men of Mercy)

Chapter 26: Illuminating Conversations

Enjolras hates admitting it, but he feels dreadful.

Absolutely, utterly dreadful.

Every part of his body aches, he feels so incredibly weak, and his wounds send rushes of pain through him at random intervals. Concerned for his still shallow breathing, Combeferre journeyed into Avignon himself this morning, and through some sort of explanation to a local doctor, retrieved a prescription for an emetic from the chemist, hoping to cleanse the last of the excess Laudanum and other toxins from Enjolras’ body.

Enjolras had never expected to vomit so much in his life, nevermind in front of his friend, but Combeferre stood by the entire time, a calming, reassuring hand on his back as Enjolras’ body shook from the effort. Enjolras didn’t think it possible, but he feels closer to Combeferre than ever before, given all the vulnerable situations he’s found himself in lately.

Enjolras surveys Combeferre now from where he lies, lax and completely spent against a mound of pillows as Combeferre puts a salve of camphor on his leg wound in the hopes of preventing any infection from returning.  It stings, but Enjolras hasn’t the energy to even twitch. Combeferre had brightened at receiving a parcel from his parents today containing his medical bag and a few things from the rooms they’d left abandoned. His parents had business in Paris, and at receiving correspondence from the landlady after she’d realized Combeferre and Enjolras had vacated the apartment, went and cleaned out the apartment themselves. They’d sent some of Enjolras’ things as well, and for that he is grateful to them. Combeferre’s parents don’t always understand their son, but they are an unceasingly kind pair, and they’d also taken great care to check every nook and cranny of the apartment for republican materials lest they accidentally remain when the landlady rents out the apartment to someone else. Combeferre is certainly on Parisian watch lists, and Enjolras is, well…he’s meant to be dead.

_You are dead, Enjolras. Do you hear me? Dead. As far as society knows, Rene Enjolras was shot and killed by my own hand in an escape attempt._

“There,” Combeferre says, pulling the covers back up over Enjolras and pulling him from his remembrance, his warm, comforting voice washing away Javert’s cold words. “That should do it.” He looks up, eyes roving over Enjolras’ face. “Do you feel dreadful?”

“I…” Enjolras begins, feeling the crushing depression that’s become disturbingly familiar over the past few days sweep over him once more, his throat raw from regurgitating the little food and water he had in him.

“It’s all right,” Combeferre says, noting Enjolras’ expression. “I think I already know the answer to that. But your breathing is returning to normal now, and your fever, though not vanished, is depleted, so I think the emetic, unpleasant as it was, did its job, though I am sorry to put you through it. I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”

“Not in the slightest, actually,” Enjolras admits. “My stomach revolts at the mere mention of anything edible, at the moment. And I imagine it would rather hurt to swallow.”

“That’s not surprising, but we should get something in you tomorrow morning, you’ll feel better then, I expect. Though we do need to keep you hydrated through the night, so do keep drinking that water on your bedside table,” Combeferre says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “And I think enough time will have passed so that I can start giving you very controlled doses of Laudanum again, I know your shoulder and your leg must pain you a great deal.”

“I don’t think I’ll be wanting the Laudanum,” Enjolras says quickly, eyes leaving Combeferre’s face and flitting to the coverlet, hands fisting into the soft material.

_His legs giving out from under him, unstable as a baby deer’s._

_His conscious mind melting away under the power of the drugs, sending the world spinning._

_Hazy._

_Unfocused._

_Javert’s hands forcing his mouth open as he pins him down upon the cold, filthy cell floor._

_The doctor pouring bitter Laudanum down his throat, choking him, burning him, stealing his control over his own body._

_Javert repeating the action the next morning, his powerful hands feeling as if they might crush the bones of Enjolras’ face._

_Hurt._

_Helpless._

_Weak._

He’s never felt so helpless, and he doesn’t care to relive that particular sensation.

Combeferre bites his lip, conflicted. He doesn’t like this idea, that much is clear, but anxiety surrounds Enjolras, real and palpable, and Combeferre doesn’t want to push him.

“I cannot and will not force you to take it,” Combeferre says, slow and deliberate with his words. “Unless you become delirious as you did the night your fever spiked so high, there is no medical reason for it. But there is little else for the pain other than simple alcohol, Enjolras, nor to help you sleep. And I will not lie: you are going to be in pain for a time. And you will be stuck in bed far more often without the relief.”

“I know, Combeferre, but I cannot,” Enjolras replies, looking back up again. “I…at least I cannot right now. I trust you, you have to know that, but if I must stay in bed, so be it. I’d rather that than feel…so helpless. To lose all control like that again, my mind and body betraying me all at once…I do not wish to feel like that.”

“I know,” Combeferre answers, tucking a strand of loose blonde hair back behind Enjolras’ ear, fingers lingering on Enjolras’ cheek for a moment as if Combeferre doesn’t quite believe he’s real. “We shall agree to revisit the subject, all right?”

Enjolras nods, squeezing Combeferre’s hand in thanks.

“How’s your hand?” Combeferre asks by way of changing the subject. “I put some of the salve on that cut just to be sure, though your shoulder doesn’t seem to need it, it’s actually healing well now.”

“The cut smarts a bit, but my leg rather overwhelms everything else,“ Enjolras says, looking down at the fresh bandage on his hand, wrapped over the cut that will surely leave a scar, an ever present reminder. “How is Grantaire? Is he still sleeping?”

“He woke briefly when I checked on him an hour ago,” Combeferre says, a tinge of worry edging into his voice. “The hallucinations seem to have stopped, thankfully. But he’s anxious, he’s ill, he’s in pain. But he should be just fine, given time. Feuilly was sitting at Grantaire’s bedside when I went in, reading yet another book from M. Gillenormand’s extensive library, and I spied a note he’d written himself that reminded him to speak to you about something he’d read when you were feeling up to it.”

Enjolras smiles at that: his admiration for Feuilly glows like the sun breaking through the thunderstorm in his heart, casting the skies a little less grey.

“I wasn’t aware alcohol withdrawal could cause such violent hallucinations,” Enjolras says after a pause, recalling Grantaire’s terror, recalling how much he wanted to relieve the glimmering fear shining in his friend’s eyes, fear so centered on him, on his well-being, his recovery.

In those frantic, fearful moments he realized with startling clarity just how much Grantaire reveres him. He’s always known that Grantaire is utterly loyal to him, loves him, but this…he’s not sure he ever fully comprehended it at this level before, and though he cannot yet express it, this terrifies him on Grantaire’s behalf. Because he is a fallible man, a human being capable of error; and yet Grantaire knows this, has always been perfectly willing to challenge him, to point out his flaws, and yet Grantaire somehow still puts him on a pedestal that Grantaire himself thinks he can never reach. It’s as if all the life in Grantaire is tied to Enjolras, to their friends, and not at all in himself, and Enjolras doesn’t want that for his friend, wouldn’t want that for anyone.

But as of yet, he’s not sure how to mend this. A pang of grief steals his breath as he thinks of Joly and Bossuet, who were always the most talented with Grantaire when he seemed lowest, who simply possessed an innate sense of handling and helping him during his most severe bouts of melancholy and self-destruction. Enjolras wants to reach out his hand to Grantaire and pull him up, show him he believes them equals, man to man, but he is not certain Grantaire will accept the gesture. Enjolras understands how cynicism comes about, has seen enough world weariness in the people they fight for to fathom that. He does not profess an understanding of people not fighting back, but then he has not been in their situation, and if they cannot fight, he will fight for them. He struggles to contemplate a world in which he isn’t fighting that battle, and wonders how Grantaire can stand the lack of purpose he surrounds himself with, wonders if it is key to the drinking. But Grantaire, Grantaire placed himself in the midst of a group of fervent idealists, warriors for a better world, and yet still claimed lack of belief while simultaneously proclaiming belief in friendship, ultimate belief in Enjolras himself, and it’s a paradox Enjolras cannot yet comprehend, though he wishes to do so now more than ever.

“It does happen,” Combeferre says. “Though I…I do think the situation was made worse by the traumas we have all experienced. And nearly losing you twice since the barricade itself, given the nature of his hallucinations…it has clearly affected Grantaire.”

Enjolras looks away, feeling a wetness gather around his eyes despite himself, his heart pounding again, and he cannot swallow it as he usually does, cannot force it back, cannot fight it and he doesn’t know _why_.

He feels Combeferre’s hand gently take his chin, tilting it up toward his gaze, hazel eyes filled with deep pools of fluid empathy.

“You have showcased your strength these past weeks perhaps more than ever before, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, voice feather-light and filled with warm comfort. “Do not even dare think otherwise. You are not yourself right now, and if you were, I’d be more concerned than I already am. None of us are our normal selves at the moment, because how on earth could we be? You are not to blame yourself for Grantaire’s condition; certainly Grantaire is the last person who would blame you. And it will lead to a good thing, this terrible process. Letting him know how much this means to all of us, to you, would mean a great deal to him, I suspect.”

 _Jehan came to me in a dream_ , Enjolras wants to say. _He told me to let all of you put me back together._

But he cannot utter the words just yet, and instead takes both of Combeferre’s hands in his own, pressing his lips to the permanently cool skin.

“Do you want me to sleep here tonight?” Combeferre offers.

_Yes._

“You have slept in here with me for two nights in a row,” Enjolras says. “You should sleep in your own bed for at least one night. You’ve been running yourself ragged between Grantaire and myself for two days, you deserve a bed all to yourself.”

“I am a wretched cover thief,” Combeferre says with a chuckle, but he still looks worried. “I could send for Courfeyrac? He went downstairs to speak with Marius and Cosette while I tended to you, but…”

“Don’t bother him,” Enjolras says. “He scarcely slept last night with the three of us piled in this bed; I think he was having another nightmare, so let him relax. I want him to relax.”

“You may find him here after you’ve fallen asleep anyhow,” Combeferre says, a smile alighting on his lips. “He’s loathe to leave you alone. We all are.”

It’s quiet between them for a moment, but Enjolras feels Combeferre’s intent gaze on him, and then as if Courfeyrac’s soul temporarily possesses him, Combeferre leans forward and folds Enjolras into a fierce embrace, careful with his injuries, emotion radiating off him in waves.

Enjolras thinks he could stay in this embrace forever, safe, cocooned in his friend’s arms like this.

But he knows he cannot.

Enjolras doesn’t speak, allowing Combeferre the moment he needs as Combeferre has done so many times with him over the past few weeks, has always done.

“I was beside myself when… _he_ dragged you out in manacles like that,” Combeferre says, still refusing to say Javert’s name, a rare edge of anger sharpening the sadness in his tone. “I could scarcely stand the thought that you wouldn’t return, of losing you. I wanted to keep my promise to you _and_ save you… if it hadn’t been for Marius and Courfeyrac…then I saw the knife to your neck…”

Combeferre’s usual steady, solid voice breaks off, and Enjolras pulls back, hands coming down to rest firmly on Combeferre’s neck, his friend’s watery gaze meeting his own.

“I am _here_ , Combeferre,” Enjolras says with a whisper of his usual firmness. “I am here and I’m not going anywhere. And you, you did everything right, you protected them. I should not have asked you to let me go, should not have burdened you with that. I only knew I had to get Javert away from all of you, had to accept…I…I am not myself, and I apologize…”

“Don’t you dare apologize, Enjolras,” Combeferre reprimands, cutting him off, hands coming to rest on Enjolras’ shoulders. “You… _we_ will figure this out. All our lives, your life, all of it.”

Enjolras rests his head against Combeferre’s, but he doesn’t tell him he fears his place in the world, fears that by flouting his capture and his punishment, flouting his death, he’s done something terribly wrong. He doesn’t want to die, certainly, he never has; he was willing to, and that is a significant difference, but he cannot help but wonder if he was _meant_ to die…but he knows Combeferre would only reassure him, would only say that despite his warlike nature, there would always be a place in the new republic for someone who risked his life and limb to build the new world, because even if it didn’t require barricades, there would always be battles to win, improvements to make. He would say that he needn’t condemn himself now for surviving the barricade, for all of the acts committed within its confines; his severity is a strength which allows him to do what he must, but he is far more than that.

Combeferre’s said the same many times in Enjolras’ darkest moments, and Enjolras listened, treaded “the broad paths of progress” as Combeferre put it. He learned he could adjust to whatever happened, but now...as a fugitive who’s meant to be dead, Enjolras has yet to figure out how to continue his work, for France, in memory of his friends, how to react to this situation, what to do, and he’s _always_ known how to proceed, it seems, as if he’s walked down revolutionary paths before in some other life, as bizarre as the idea might sound voiced out loud.

“Your schooling,” Enjolras says, suddenly desperate to talk with Combeferre about this. “You finished your externship at Necker, and you had but your final exam to complete to become fully certified, I want you to finish that. I know you cannot go back to Paris, but…”

“My parents said they spoke to the university,” Combeferre says. “Told them I’d fallen ill, and the air in Paris had put me in bad humors, and it is possible I can get my records transferred from Paris to Aix-Marseille University and take my exam there, as they felt I was a model student. It will take some time, but…”

“You must do it,” Enjolras says, feeling almost manic now. He might not be able to lead a normal life, a life where he is not constantly looking over his shoulder, inventing a name and a story and a life, but it need not be so for his friends. “You are an excellent doctor, you could find a practice here in Avignon, I’m sure any of them would be proud to have you. And Courfeyrac can find a law firm that takes on the cases of the poor like he’s always wanted, and Marius can join him perhaps, after he settles with Cosette, and Feuilly and Grantaire they can…”

“Enjolras, Enjolras, it’s all right,” Combeferre replies, both his hands covering Enjolras’. “I will make certain to send for my records as soon as you are a bit better.”

“You do not have to wait for that,” Enjolras argues, passionate urgency filling him to the brim and bursting over the edge. “I am not…”

“Do not finish that statement,” Combeferre says. “Right now, nothing is more important than all of us, than your health, than Grantaire’s health.”

“But the summer sessions are over at the end of July, and it is the end of June,” Enjolras persists. “You would have to wait until the winter session, that is…”

“We will see how it progresses,” Combeferre says, calm and resolute. “I can always write my director at Necker and see if he can pull any strings with the university in Marseille so that I can take the exam outside of term. If not, I can take it during the winter session and perhaps work at a practice in the meantime. When you are better, mind.”

Enjolras nods, holding tight to Combeferre’s hands, the feeling steadying his racing mind.

“If Joly could see me now, he’d probably say my humors were out of balance,” Enjolras answers, feeling a melancholy smile stretch unnaturally across his lips. “Would you agree?”

“I think you have been through a great deal of trauma,” Combeferre answers, even and sincere. “And that has an effect on anyone’s emotional and mental health. It requires _time_. And Joly would agree with me.”

“No bloodletting, then?” Enjolras asks apprehensively, fingering the just healed scar in the crook of his elbow.

“Hmmm, not unless your fever persists for several more days or goes up,” Combeferre says, furrowing his brow. “Its efficacy is highly debated these days, but it is often used as a last resort. But hopefully we will not have to do it again.”

A familiar rap on the door alerts them to someone’s presence outside, and Courfeyrac enters, Gavroche just behind him.

“I found this one lingering outside your door, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, oddly tentative and clearly searching for Enjolras’ permission. “I thought he might like to say hello?”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, gesturing at the two of them. “Come sit up here, if you like, Gavroche?”

The boy obliges, coming up to sit between Enjolras and Combeferre on the bed, while Courfeyrac takes the chair, observing them with a half-smile; it’s small, but Enjolras is pleased to see even a sliver of the usual starlight grin.

“You have to stay in bed again?” Gavroche asks, peering first at Enjolras, then Combeferre as if suspicious that Combeferre is being overly worrisome. “And Grantaire, too?”

“For a few days at least,” Enjolras replies, glancing over at Combeferre before looking back at Gavroche. “If you like, you can keep me company sometimes. And Grantaire must rest too; he’s a bit under the weather.”

“He’s trying to quit the drink?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, ever amazed at Gavroche’s perception, but knowing that he’s certainly far more mature in some ways than a normal ten-year old could possibly be, has seen things he never should have, borne witness to all the evils of the society and the government they so desired to dismantle and start anew.

Gavroche nods, but looks unsure. “Dunno what I could do to entertain ya. Can’t read to you like I see Feuilly and Cosette or Marius doin’ all the time. Don’t know as many puns as Courfeyrac to make you laugh...”

Enjolras feels his stomach sink at Gavroche’s words, but it’s a thought confirmed. He looks closely at Gavroche, seeing the shadows shading his light blue eyes, his downcast expression that’s stained with an odd sort of anger, a frustration, an embarrassment he doesn’t like admitting. Enjolras longs for the sarcastic, mischievous smile with just a dash of a smirk he knows so well. He recalls the barricade, recalls Gavroche’s argument for a rifle, heartily offended when it was decided he would be given if there were enough for all the men, annoyed that all of them kept trying to send him away from the barricade.

_“Gamin!”_

_“Smooth-face!”_

“Your company is enough, Master Gavroche,” Enjolras says, teasing lightly, hoping to win a smile.

He does, albeit a tiny one, but it’s enough for the moment.

“I’m sure one of us could teach you to read and write Gavroche,” Combeferre says, practically reading Enjolras’ mind. “Once things settle down. Would you like that?”

“Really?” Gavroche asks, smile widening now. He looks from Combeferre to Courfeyrac to Enjolras. “Would _you_ teach me, Enjolras? I’ve always wanted to learn so I can be more independent, ya know. Eponine knew how to read and write, but I didn’t see ‘er enough to learn from her, and I dunno if she knew how to teach it besides, but she was pretty good at it. Bahorel was gonna teach me, he said, but…”

He trails off, smile faltering, memories of Bahorel playing across his eyes in vivid, sharpened color. The child had looked up to Bahorel, respected and admired his irreverence and his love of a good brawl. Gavroche had seen Bahorel bayoneted in the chest, they’d all seen it; life-loving, laughing, defiant Bahorel, who lived every single minute of his life to its fullest extent suddenly dead on the ground.

“I will teach you, Gavroche,” Enjolras agrees. “Once…once I am well enough.”

Gavroche smiles fully now, a light returning to his eyes.

Courfeyrac, noticing that Enjolras tires, tugs on Gavroche’s sleeve.

“All right Gav, let’s allow Enjolras some sleep, shall we? I think I saw a few of the dessert pastries left out from earlier, if you’d like to help me sneak some from the kitchen.”

Gavroche nearly topples over in his enthusiasm, but smiles one last time at Enjolras before dashing out the door in front of Courfeyrac, who pauses at Enjolras’ side.

“If you need me in the night,” he says, serious now. “Do not hesitate. I’m just on the other side of the wall, do feel free to knock on it with your cane if you find you cannot get up and need company, all right?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, that familiar feeling of security overcoming him as Courfeyrac kisses the top of his head. “I will.”

Courfeyrac grasps Combeferre’s arm before exiting, following in Gavroche’s wake.

“I suppose I should let you rest,” Combeferre says after a moment. “Are you certain you’ll be okay on your own?”

“Yes,” Enjolras repeats, even if he is not certain it’s the truth. “Get some proper rest.”

“You as well,” Combeferre insists. “And try and finish that glass of water first; it might make you feel nauseated, but it will pass.”

He squeezes Enjolras’ hand one last time before going, lingering in the doorway for longer than necessary before closing the it behind him.

* * *

Enjolras cannot sleep.

It’s been a solid two hours since Combeferre and Courfeyrac left him to sleep, and though he closes his eyes, though he sinks deep down into the goose-feather pillows, the covers snug around body, blissful repose does not come.

He’d fallen into sweat-soaked, wretched slumber for an entire twenty minutes, his abstract, smoky nightmares filled with snatches of Grantaire writhing on the floor in utter agony, Enjolras’ name a cry escaping his lips, filled with darkness seeping into Enjolras’ body and pulling out balls of glowing light, swallowing them up into the black, Grantaire’s screams echoing in his ears without pause, mixed with Combeferre’s shouts of despair, Courfeyrac’s unrestrained sobs, Feuilly’s cries of anger, Marius’ calls for help against some unseen, vicious enemy as he reaches for Cosette, who cannot get to him. Jehan, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet surrounded them all, reached out for them, but were blocked by a wall of shadowy clouds, all the light obscured behind them.

He sits up, knowing that no matter how often he closes his eyes he’ll only be greeted with persistent wakefulness or with nightmares thieving away any decent rest. He’s lost his hair tie somewhere among the pillows, so he runs a hand through his loose, damp hair, sweeping the sweaty tendrils from his face.

He needs to see Grantaire, needs to see him to make sure he’s still breathing, still fighting. He knows it’s not rational, he knows Combeferre told him Grantaire was improving, would recover, but he needs to see him nevertheless. He reaches for the cane resting in-between his bed and the nightstand, gripping it tightly as he pushes himself up; Combeferre taught him to use the cane on the opposite side of his injured leg so his good one might bear most of the weight, but in turn this sends a punch of pain through his shoulder and his cut hand, but he grits his teeth against it, successfully getting up from the bed.

Grantaire’s room is two doors down diagonally across the hall across from own, not far at all, but to Enjolras it might as well be the six-hundred mile distance from Avignon to Paris. Before the prison debacle his strength had slowly begun to return, though he was only able to walk short distances with the cane. Now, weak once more and without the numbing of Laudanum he trembles with fatigue before he even reaches his own door.

 _You can do it_ , he tells himself. _One foot in front of the other._

He leans on various pieces of furniture as he exits the room, letting the solid wood take his weight, but once he enters the hall it’s just the cane, and he feels knives stab him repeatedly in the leg as he walks. Sweat beads at his forehead as he goes, and by the time he reaches the door to Grantaire’s room it runs down his face in salty rivulets and he’s all but dragging his leg behind him, half-hopping on his good foot.

The door to Grantaire’s room stands cracked open, so he pushes it forward quietly as he can before collapsing into the vacated chair by the bed, instantly stretching his leg out and resting it on the sideboard, pain pulsing through him in shocks of heated anguish. He leans over, head resting against his knee, hands clenching at his bad leg and drawing shallow, gulping breaths. He closes his eyes for a moment, hearing a cough, hearing the bedcovers rustle.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire’s scratchy, sleep drenched voice asks. “Is that…what are you doing in here?”

Enjolras breathes out through clenched teeth, unable to verbalize just yet; he’d hoped he wouldn’t wake Grantaire, and if he did he’d hoped to be a reassuring presence, but the pain has other plans, it seems.

“Here,” Grantaire says, sitting up. Enjolras sees his hands still tremble and twitch, and he’s a great deal paler than normal. “Let me help you up here with me so you can stretch out.”

“No,” Enjolras argues. “You are ill, you shouldn’t.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says dryly, wrapping a strong arm around Enjolras’s waist and helping him from the chair. “But I am also mobile. Don’t be stubborn; it is not a virtue in this case.”

Between Enjolras’ injuries and Grantaire’s shaking hands it’s awkwardly done, but soon enough both of them are stretched out on the roomy bed.

“Why are you…” Grantaire stops, a wince of pain marring his bewildered words. “Why are you here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Enjolras says, looking over at him, swallowing anything in him that will prevent him from being completely honest and open in this moment as is continually the problem between the two of them aside from a few notable instances. They’ve made such progress, and he will not harm that now. “I just…I just wanted to see you for myself. To make sure with my own eyes that you were all right. Of course, I know ‘all right’ isn’t the word to describe you right now, but just to make…”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, putting up a hand to silence him. “I understand the meaning. But you could have hurt yourself.”

“I am in one piece,” Enjolras replies. “No harm done, just pain.”

“Pain _is_ harm,” Grantaire says with emphasis, losing his feigned calm with disconcerting speed. “You are hurt enough, you cannot take anymore. You almost died twice already, you cannot…your body cannot…”

Enjolras hears the rapid-fire sound of Grantaire’s words, hears Grantaire’s breath hitching in his chest, sees his pulse beat frantically against the skin of his neck at the mere idea that Enjolras injured himself further.

“Shhh,” Enjolras says, placing a hesitant hand on Grantaire’s cheek, which is as sweaty as his own. “Quiet now. Go back to sleep, Grantaire. Just sleep. Rest will help you win this battle, you’re doing so well.”

Grantaire gapes at him with wide eyes as if he doesn’t quite believe Enjolras is actually there, as if he thinks he doesn’t deserve such words, and there’s an emotional vulnerability shining in those dark green eyes Enjolras has never witnessed before. There are no defenses in the form of a sarcastic comment, no verbal, defiant challenge spoken in nearly the same breath as a raw, unchecked emotion. There are no lengthy discourses littered with the classic and literary references of a well-read man, his true thoughts and feelings buried somewhere among the sea of names and quotes stringing them together. The irritating sensation of Grantaire metaphorically pulling him in and then pushing him back with the same hand, in the same moment, isn’t present **.**

Perhaps Grantaire is vulnerable because he is ill, because he does not have the bottle to hide behind, but it matters not, in the moment, why Grantaire is vulnerable or why Enjolras is vulnerable. Rather it only matters that it’s happening at the same time.

“Apollo,” Grantaire whispers.

“No,” Enjolras says, stern but still kind. “Just Enjolras. I’m no god, only a mortal as human as you are.”

Grantaire doesn’t respond, but instead turns on his side, burying his face in Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras knows that in his normal state of mind Grantaire would never do this, but he accepts the touch, taking one hand and entwining it within Grantaire’s forest of wild black curls, thumb moving back and forth across his scalp in hopes of easing the headache Combeferre says will plague Grantaire for several days. He’d come across Joly doing the same to Grantaire on the morning of a particularly nasty hangover, and for some reason the sight imprinted on his mind: Joly’s agile doctor’s hands massaging through Grantaire’s untamed locks while Bossuet placed food in front of his nose, Bahorel’s mumbling that none of his friends ever tried massaging _his_ hangover headaches away, and Joly’s good-natured reply that Bahorel would likely punch anyone who tried, aside perhaps, from Prouvaire, who could tease Bahorel to his heart’s content without getting smacked in the arm, for some reason.

Enjolras and Grantaire have never been so tactile with each other, but somehow now it seems only natural.

“Why are you _here_?” Grantaire asks, hoarse voice muffled against Enjolras’ shirt. “Do not be like me, Enjolras, do not. Is that why you’re here? To tell me that you have given up? That the darkness I saw in the horrific recesses of my mind has really overcome you?”

“No,” Enjolras answers. “The recesses of your mind, those hallucinations, they are not reality. You have spent many an hour at my bedside while I have been ill, and I wish to return the favor. You are my friend, Grantaire, a friend undergoing a hardship I have long wished to see you overcome. It reassures and comforts me to be by your side, and I’d hoped to bolster your efforts.”

Grantaire does not respond, is perhaps afraid to do so; he takes Enjolras’ injured hand in his own, entwining their fingers and folding their hands out to rest together over Enjolras’ heart. His worries eased ever so slightly by seeing that Grantaire, while still ill, improves, Enjolras feels his eyes flutter closed with emotional and physical exhaustion, sleep finally claiming him for its own.

* * *

Two open doors catch Valjean’s eye on one of his none too rare nightly walks around this sprawling house, driven by his occasional bouts of insomnia.

Reaching Enjolras’ door he peers around it, fearing he’s taken a turn in the night and Combeferre or perhaps Courfeyrac are tending to him. What he sees stills his heart briefly: the room is empty. The covers of the bed are thrown back, tussled, indicating a night of tossing, and his cane is gone.

Valjean is not one for panic, and crosses the hallway immediately to check Grantaire has not similarly disappeared in the night. He has not: he is sprawled, as expected in bed, and Valjean breathes a sigh of relief because there next to him, fast asleep, blond hair fanned across both pillows, is Enjolras. Their hands are clasped together across Enjolras’ chest, both pale and flushed with fevers, but while Grantaire looks content and more at rest than he has for days, Enjolras’ face is mask of apprehension and turmoil even in sleep.

But at least he’s sleeping.

Valjean smiles, making to close the door when he sees Enjolras’ stormy blue eyes pop open as though he senses someone’s presence. Enjolras looks over at Grantaire then back at Valjean, who comes over as quietly as possible to the side of the bed.

“I did not expect to find you out of your own bed,” Valjean whispers. “I didn’t expect you’d be able to leave your own bed unassisted, actually.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Enjolras replies with a wan smile, voice just as soft for fear of waking Grantaire. “And I…I was worried about Grantaire. I just…needed to see him for myself, and I suppose I fell asleep here. Though I don’t think I could fall asleep again at the moment, and I don’t know if possess the energy to make my way back to my own room.”

“Here,” Valjean says, offering his arm. “Let me help you. Do you want to go back to you room?”

“I…” Enjolras says, looking from Valjean to Grantaire and back again. “No, not really.”

“We’ll go to the room I’ve claimed for my study, if that sounds all right,” Valjean says, gaging the boy’s reaction. He looks as if he needs to talk, and Valjean is anxious to help him, anxious to clear away the dark cobwebs of doubt spinning themselves across Enjolras’ eyes in intricate patterns.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies. “Yes, that sounds fine.” Enjolras smiles faintly. “You always seem to be my rescuer, sir.” He says as he uses both hands to shift his injured leg and set both feet on the floor.

Valjean watches Enjolras’ eyes flit back to Grantaire once more, an uncertainty building in his eyes that Valjean’s never seen there before. From what he’s gathered, Enjolras has a firm, direct, sure nature, and seeing him hesitate, seeing him tussle with his own mind like this sits like stone in the center of Valjean’s stomach.

“Grantaire will recover,” Valjean says, putting a reassuring hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “He’s already far improved from just two nights ago, and he has friends like all of you, has an excellent medic in Combeferre.”

Enjolras nods, placing a feather-light kiss on Grantaire’s forehead before turning back toward Valjean, who wraps an arm around the younger man’s waist as Enjolras takes his cane. With Valjean bearing a great deal of his weight, the trek down the hall, though still painful, is easier this time. Once they reach the study Valjean deposits Enjolras carefully into the leather armchair, helping him prop his leg up on the ottoman before sitting down in the chair next to him.

“I could probably scrounge up some tea if you like,” Valjean says, noting Enjolras’ drawn complexion. “Touissant knows my habits well enough to leave a pot out for me to heat up at night.”

Enjolras places a hand over his stomach, shaking his head. “Combeferre gave me an emetic earlier, and I’m not sure I can tolerate much at the moment, though if there’s any water I’d be glad to take that. He told me to stay hydrated.”

“So he told me,” Valjean says, turning and reaching for the pitcher and the glass Madame Bellard has taken to leaving permanently on the desk and filling it up for Enjolras. “How are you feeling?”

Enjolras accepts the glass, taking a healthy sip while pondering his answer.

“Honestly, I rather feel like I’ve been run over by a carriage,” he says, looking back up at Valjean. “Twice.” He stops, surveying Valjean again, and even though Enjolras is weary, ill, and not entirely himself, Valjean feels the intensity of the young man’s gaze filling him with the sensation of bright flames filling him up to the brim. In fact, it is a rather pleasant feeling; Enjolras does not scorch the world with his fire, but instead gives light, a light brightening and shooting through the darkness, a light so bright, so blinding, that some people are unfortunately not yet prepared to look upon it.

 “I cannot…” Enjolras continued. “I have not really had the opportunity to thank you properly for everything you’ve done these past few weeks. And you…you risked your very life, your freedom coming to get me back from Javert. Had it not been for you, I’d be nearly to Paris now, likely…likely facing my death.”

Enjolras’ eyes leave Valjean’s face and fall to the floor, searching for answers among the lush carpet, memories clearing barraging his mind, guilt casting shadows on his face that looks as if it is the painting of an archangel coming to life: a warring archangel who has been through battle, an archangel with a bruise on his face, fever-red cheeks, and paler than usual skin, but an archangel nonetheless. Enjolras winces noticeably again.

“You are not taking the Laudanum?” Valjean guesses.

“Combeferre told you?” Enjolras replies though there is no accusation in his voice.

“A guess.”

“No. I…it robs me of…my senses, my control and I…I cannot…”

“I understand that, but if dosed properly,” Valjeans replies, concerned by the stutter and what it implies.

“I have never liked it.” Enjolras says, shifting as pain radiates up to his hip and sits there, aching. “I have never liked the sensation it gives. It is why I drink alcohol only sparingly, usually just wine…” He stops abruptly, pressing his hand to his mouth, gathering himself.

“Control?” Valjean questions, detecting a desperate doubt coursing through Enjolras desperate his attempts to reign in his emotion.

Enjolras looks up sharply, eyes flicking back and forth, reading Valjean’s face, his meaning, his intent. Even now, as hurt and unsure as Enjolras is, his gaze is intense, illuminating, and Valjean feels as though his soul is laid bare for the reading beneath it.

Something akin to resolution crosses Enjolras face, along with the ever present pain and Valjean senses this is about more than just Laudanum.

 “I have always had a temper, been passionate,” Enjolras begins, one hand playing about his mouth, the other pressed to his leg. “I struggled as a child to control it, boarding school…well…” he makes a gesture with his hand, possibly wrenching himself from a memory. “I had thought, in later years I had learned some measure of control, to…channel my energy into the cause, to bridle my passion and intensity and feeling into a…”

“Force to be reckoned with?” Valjean supplies, a sudden image of Enjolras atop the barricade, bellowing orders, sharply contrasted against the soft dismissal of those with families.

Enjolras smiles sardonically, “Something like that. The Laudanum…I have never…”

“Take your time,” Valjean says, ever patient.

 “Thank you,” Enjolras says, and stares into the water glass for a long moment. “I lost control.” He whispers at last. “In the jail. I was so…angry. There was a woman, she’d been stabbed and…the blood…I couldn’t…I couldn’t do anything, and he, Javert, wouldn’t send for a doctor.” He puts the glass down and takes a steadying breath before meeting Valjean’s eyes. “She died in my arms, I could do nothing for this poor woman who had already experienced much hardship.”  A shadow of the fury wells up, displacing the pain momentarily. “I lost control,” he says again. “I couldn’t stop it, I didn’t _want_ to stop it. I wanted to _hurt_ him, to make him feel even an _ounce_ of what Isabelle…” his voice goes faint, cracks, and he stops again.

“That was why he drugged me.” Enjolras says coldly. “He was afraid. Of me, what I would do, could do. _I_ was afraid of myself. I knew I was capable of feeling such fury, but I did not know I was incapable of controlling it. I did not know I was capable of doing…the things I did. I knew the course my actions would lead to, the revolution, the barricade, all of it. I knew hard decisions would be asked of me…that I would have to do things of which I do not approve. I was prepared for that. I made those decisions. But now…I question it. All of it. My right to choose for every man behind that barricade. The decisions I chose to make. And I cannot…absolve myself of those crimes. I do not question the need for violent revolutions, I abhor the fact that they must exist, but in the current world, it is the only way. I only question my decisions, my leadership.”

“Enjolras,” Valjean says after a moment. “I see the guilt in your face. You have done nothing wrong by evading capture, evading death. It is as I said just the other day; I would see you live to keep fighting.”

“I _am_ guilty.” Enjolras replies, eyes harsh, voice freezing over with self-judgment. “I killed LeCabuc, I killed the artillery sargeant and countless more men in the heat of battle. I might as well have signed my friends’ death warrants, and that of every man who stood and fell beside me. I just...” Enjolras tries, trying to control a voice that shakes with bare emotion. “Some of my closest friends are dead, countless comrades are dead, great numbers of my brothers in arms who fought across Paris are dead, other leaders like myself are dead, in prison, or sentenced to die, and here I am still living. Here I am still living after I dealt out justice within the confines of the barricade to keep order. I…”

“I was there, Enjolras,” Valjean says evenly. “You gave the men the choice to leave. They made their own choice. Your friends made their own choices, and you know that in your heart. They and all the men who followed you chose you as their leader for a reason. Your comrades, your brothers in arms, and _especially_ your friends,” Valjean says, putting a finger under Enjolras’ chin and tipping his face up. “They would _want_ you to live. I have seen your leadership, Enjolras. I have seen you make sacrifices, make decisions that pain you, but that you know you must make. I saw you send men away from the barricade so their families might not be without them. Yes you are willing to offer the protest of corpses when necessary, you are willing to kill to keep order in the barricade, to save it, when there is no other way, but you are also very adamant that people must live to continue the cause. Do you not think that includes you?”

“I want it to,” Enjolras admits, holding Valjean’s gaze now. “I have no wish to die, though I was willing to, I only fear I was not meant to live, I…I do not know how to live as a fugitive and still fight for this cause, but that is everything I desire. I do not know how to cope with this trauma and this anxiety and this gaping hole in my heart while still remaining myself, being strong for my friends, I don’t…And if Grantaire is right? If things never change, if humanity is incapable of change? I spun them a web of a beautiful future in pretty, poetic words that will never come to pass and they followed me blindly, I don’t want them to have died in vain…I can’t…”

At seeing Enjolras’ distress, at seeing him war with his emotions to remain strong, a rush of affection overcomes Valjean’s heart, and he gets up, kneeling in front of Enjolras, resting a hand on his good knee, the other on his good shoulder.

“You don’t believe that,” Valjean says firmly “Whatever doubts you are having, they are the result of trauma, and drugs, illness and injury. You could no more believe in Grantaire’s cynical view of humanity than you could have taken your friends’ lives yourself. Most of the time I do not think Grantaire believes in that view himself, if his friendship with you is any indication, he only fears the hurt believing sometimes causes. This hurt you’re feeling right now. Do not discredit their sacrifice by putting stock into these momentary flights of doubt. They are normal, and they are natural, if foreign to you, the optimist I know you are.”

Enjolras looks at him, eyes red from holding back his tears, and then drops his head into his hands.

 “It is a different circumstance, but I was once in your place,” Valjean tells him, memories swirling through his mind in varying shades of clarity. You might not believe it now. But you will. You committed crimes, yes. As have I.”

_What spirit comes to move my life? Is there another way to go? I am reaching, but I fall, and the night is closing in…_

_Petit Gervais._

_Stealing the silver, the hatred whirling in his heart, broken through by Bishop Myriel._

“It is hardly the same, monsieur.” Enjolras says bitterly. “You…you stole because your family was starving, and then all subsequent occurrences of crime occurred because you were angry at the injustice of your prison sentence, a place where you were hardly treated as a human, but you changed Valjean, changed at the kindness of one man.”

“Ah,” Valjean says, holding up a finger. “And was the barricade you built, the barricades built all over Paris, your revolution, your cause, your work, your friends’ work, was that not all in effort to make a better world for people that grew up in my situation? So that all might have food and shelter and a fair justice system? That everyone might have a voice?”

Enjolras nods, pressing his lips tightly together to hide the trembling of his jaw.

“You dealt out justice on the barricade and you say you cannot justify it? It seems untenable, here in this peaceful and luxurious house to allow yourself that reprieve?”

Another nod.

“And did you have any other choice?”

“Combeferre did not stop me from killing LeCabuc, knew we could not have someone believing it was all right to simply shoot citizens who did not assist us, but he pleaded with me not to shoot the artillery sergeant. He asked me to yield…”

“Combeferre is a gentle soul and not a warrior; he turned himself inside out to fight at that barricade because he knew there was no other way, knew you were right in that, but it is not his natural state, fighting, so that was his sacrifice. But you cannot hand the world to progress without first fighting, not yet, and he knows that, so he fought willingly with you. You revere him as much you do all of your friends, but he could not have done what you did, though he supports you always, even if he disagrees. That is why, I suspect, you are the chief, and he is your guide. But answer me this, do you think you had any other choice, would Feuilly have thought any other choice?”

“He’d have found another…” Enjolras begins.

“Would he?” Valjean presses, his fingers digging into Enjolras’ knee.

Enjolras shakes his head, a miniscule movement.

“I’d be almost to Paris by now, if you hadn’t…rescued me.”

“You think I shouldn’t have done?”

Enjolras shakes his head again. “I don’t know.” He murmurs, almost inaudible. “I cannot help but believe that I should be on that coach, to face the justice I so readily dealt and believe in.”

“The justice of our corrupt government? Enjolras, that is not what you believe in. The barricade failed. There is work to be done yet. If you were meant to face trial, and likely execution, now my rescue, as you say, would have failed. True justice and damnation is reserved for the Lord. Your place is to continue this fight. There is no need to damn yourself, my boy, the world needs you and more young men like your friends. Your friends need you.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, pained by the thought of their failed revolution.

“Of all the possibilities I imagined following the barricades, this wasn’t one. I was foolish, I planned and thought everything through but this...And now I’m a fugitive.”

“You are not foolish and you can still fight. There will be a way, I know it. And I know, I know you feel trapped in darkness right now, I know you do: I understand the place you’re in, but you have an advantage over me in this instance. When the bishop first helped me, I saw the light, but was unsure if I could reach it,” Valjean continues. “You have already been in the light, believed in it, you already know who you were before. It is merely a matter of remembering that man, of holding on to him and adapting him to this new life, to this new circumstance. Allowing him to grieve for what he has lost, and allowing that memory to drive him forward. You are most certainly a fighter, Enjolras, you will always find a battle, but you do not fight simply to make a war, you do so to forge a better world.”

To Valjean’s delight, Enjolras smiles. It is a smile drenched with melancholy, but it is a smile nonetheless.

“Our friend Prouvaire would have loved that,” Enjolras says, and Valjean recalls the young man with the reddish blonde hair, the smiling light brown eyes, words of poetry written across them, the young man who fell as they escaped, that light still in his eyes even in death.

“You boys are some of the most impressive young men I’ve yet come across,” Valjean says, removing his hands from Enjolras’ shoulder and folding them back into his lap. “To learn so much, to band together and fight for a cause such as the freedom of an entire nation. It is admirable, and it is utterly selfless.”

“People always ask me the exact moment this cause became the flame that lit my heart,” Enjolras muses. “And though all of us can recall moments from our childhood, from our adolescence when it dawned on us that there are some very serious cracks in the foundation of our society, it is such a part of me that it almost seems it was always there. I shall never forget when my grandmother handed me Paine’s Common Sense when I was twelve or so-she was rather a fan of his-and I read the line ‘the state of a king shuts him off from the world, yet the business of a king requires him to know it thoroughly’ it just made so much sense to me. If I were to choose a single moment, it might be that one.”

“You have read a great deal?”

“As much as I could get my hands on, and with my grandmother’s American heritage and my mother’s not so secret republican sympathies I found it easy to get my hands on things, despite the fact that my father was concerned over my growing political interests,” Enjolras replies. “First she gave me Paine, all the writings of the American founding fathers. Then she gave me Rousseau and some Robespierre, Danton, Mirabeau. Combeferre illuminated me on Desmoulins, and I have read everything I could locate that Saint-Just wrote. I saw people suffering, starving, dying, and was given no reason other than ‘that is their place in the world.’ It never sat right with me.”

“As well it should not,” Valjean says, remembering his own childhood, his family, working to the bone and still being consistently on the brink of starvation.

He does not believe that it is God’s decree at all, but the decree of men too selfish and power-hungry and stuck in the ruts of society to change. God, he believes, is entirely merciful. His mind strays to Cosette as it tends to; if it had been up to society, her lot in life would have simply been ‘the way things were’ and she would have been trapped and left in a life she’d done nothing to deserve. The thought of her, the juxtaposition of her dirtied, unsmiling face upon their first meeting against her beautiful, sunny smile of the present lifts his heart.

He looks back at Enjolras again, his mind clearly churning with thoughts, but at the very least he looks as if some of his burden has been lifted, and his eyes start falling heavily.

“Bed, I think,” Valjean says with a fatherly air, unable to stop himself from brushing a finger against Enjolras’ cheek; the boy is strong, he will set the world spinning with his ideas and his passion, he is fierce in battle, Valjean has seen it, but in this moment, he looks so like a tired young boy. “Let me help you get back. Your mother should be getting my letter, tomorrow, I expect, so we shall have to be on the lookout for her reply.”

Enjolras nods, allowing Valjean to help him up and resume the same stance they had on the way from Grantaire’s room.

“I apologize, monsieur, if my father comes with my mother,” Enjolras says, voice saturated with exhaustion, wincing as he takes a bad step on his leg. “I do not know if he will come, but I suspect he might, and he…he will not be pleased with me. I have not seen him in…three years at least.”

“We shall face that when it comes,” Valjean says, lifting Enjolras up onto the bed, and Enjolras does not fight the gesture. “Sleep, Enjolras.”

Enjolras nods again with a mere tilt of his head, and Valjean watches him fall into slumber, pulling the covers up around him, tender with his injuries.

_Like the son I might have known…_

 


	27. Affairs of the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! I heartily apologize for the very long delay in updating; I had a family emergency that involved last minute travel and all that sort of thing over the past couple of weeks, so am trying to catch up on life now, including updating this fic! I hope you enjoy the very long chapter

Javert’s heart pounds against his chest when he enters the police station, an entirely foreign effect of such a familiar place. This building represents the law, symbolizes the victory of right over wrong, of clear, unquestioned judgment. It represents a sort of home, if he’s rather honest with himself, and Javert has never truly felt at home anywhere else.

Or at least it used to represent these things, but now…now nothing is the same.

During his days as an officer at Toulon this was always the goal: Paris, a highly respected officer of the law, an office within this building. Now it represents everything he feels he is no longer, it is steadfast and solid, it is unwavering in its solemnity and duty, and he feels nothing but irresolute, shaky, hesitant, and these are foreign emotions to him; he vehemently dislikes the turmoil recent events have thrust his mind into. He questions where before he answered with conviction, or perhaps even worse, he cannot answer at all. He cannot understand or justify his own actions, but to think of any other course disquiets him too.

He pauses just beyond the entrance, breathing in and closing his eyes, Images of the extremities of these actions flash in his vision, memories running across his eyes and bursting with explosive pops of panic.

_Enjolras’ fiery gaze burning him to cinders and ashes through the jail bars, their darkness and solidity throwing into sharp juxtaposition the boy’s delicacy, his paleness, which only serves to make him seem luminescent, ethereal. An angel trapped. A furious angel._

_His hands forcing the boy’s mouth open, pouring the potent drugs down his throat because of his own desperate need for control that rapidly slips through his fingers._

_The knife in his hand, close against Enjolras’ skin, the thinnest of barriers between cold, hard steel and hot, vibrant blood. An inch is all takes to take a life, and become the murderer Valjean warned him he’d be._

_Valjean’s kind but determined gaze, the barest hint of aggression under the patience, A dichotomy of a man whose haunted him for his entire career, a merciful convict, kind and criminal._

_Valjean’s pleading, his words, his bizarre, inherent understanding of Javert himself._

_The feeling of insanity slapping him in the face, his own laughter piercing the quiet outskirts of Avignon, beneath the sky that is the same color as Enjolras’ cloudy, drugged eyes, those eyes that haunt him each passing day with the knowledge that he’d put that expression there, that he’d quelled that fire. But he also hates that he feels guilty._

He shakes his head, straightening his jacket and walking forward; he is a consummate professional, and no matter how shattered, how utterly out of control he feels on the inside, he will not let it show on the outside.

He never has.

Despite his strength of mind, images of Enjolras at the barricade come to his mind unbidden. Javert himself had been bound, strung from a post, and the boy has asked him if he wanted anything, he remembers Enjolras himself carefully helping him to take a drink of water because his hands were chained, gentle as he tipped water into his mouth, respecting his prisoner, the spy who threatened to compromise the whole barricade, the spy he’d already sentenced to death.

He did not show Enjolras such respect.

Then, oddly juxtaposed with this, Javert recalls Enjolras’ expression as he’d signed him over to Valjean’s mercy, in full belief Valjean would kill him. Even then he’d shown all of the fierceness of a warrior, the suppressed guilt of a boy who knows that killing is wrong, the burden of a young man who knew that death was an inevitable part of giving life to his country, to its people, even if he hated it, even if it rent him apart.

In that moment Javert feared a man that compared to himself was a child still: and Javert was not accustomed to fearing anyone.

Was that why he’d nearly killed Enjolras? Because he’d feared not only his actions, but everything he represented?

_The boy killed, too_ , the voice reminds him. _You saw him_.

Yes, he argues back, but though Enjolras’ treasonous actions were against Javert’s own idea of right and wrong, Enjolras killed for reasons far more justified than Javert’s own had been when he threatened Enjolras’ life twice in as many days. Enjolras had killed in what was essentially a battle, in the confines of a barricade; Javert had nearly killed him when Enjolras himself wasn’t fighting, wasn’t resisting, had nearly killed him when he knew that the boy’s death belonged to the law alone, to the king, to the court.

Javert hates himself for thinking Enjolras’ actions more justified than his own, but he cannot banish the thought, not now.

Killing is against human nature, and yet there are so many situations where people’s hands are forced.

But Javert knows nothing forced him to put that knife to Enjolras’ neck, and deep in the back of his mind he knows Valjean, not his own self-will, stopped him from killing Enjolras.

In that moment, Javert feared a man that compared to himself was a child still: and Javert was not accustomed to fearing anyone.

_Why did you let the boy go? Why did you let Valjean convince you?_

Because it was right. It was merciful.        

He nearly spits the word.

_The boy is dangerous._

The boy might just do some good.

“Inspector Javert.”

“Inspector Javert.”

Javert blinks. Present day and place swarm into focus.

“Inspector Javert,” Betrand says a third time, scampering up to him and looking nervous. “You’ve returned. Is everything quite all right? Are you…I mean...”

“Everything is fine, Bertrand,” Javert says, tone crisp. “Is the Prefect in?”

“He is,” Bertrand answers, surveying Javert with concern, but there’s also a sense of uncertain anxiety emanating off him.

“What is it, Betrand?” Javert asks, polite, but quickly losing his thin layer of patience.

“I…nothing monsieur,” Bertrand says, still nervous. “He’s been waiting for you, so just knock.”

Javert nods at him then turns to go, rapping firmly on the Prefect’s office door with a sense of surety he doesn’t feel.

“Come in.”

Prefect Gerard looks up when Javert enters, eyebrows furrowing as his lips curve downward in a slight frown, but his tone is friendly.

“Inspector Javert,” he says, gesturing at the chair across from him. “Do sit down.”

Javert does, his uneasiness doubled by the Prefect’s stilted air.

“We received your letter just yesterday, but it contained no details of what occurred while you were in Avignon,” he says with an even tone, slow and deliberate. “Would you care to…inform me?”

Javert reaches into his pocket, pulling out the small bag containing Enjolras’ handkerchief, tossing it onto the desk

_‘“Javert…”_

_“Do not.”_

_“I need to hear you say you understand me, boy.”_

“I found Enjolras in an inn in Avignon,” Javert says, the lie tasting virulent on his tongue. “There was no sign of the Fauchelevent man who apparently rescued him from the barricade. His comrades put up some resistance, but I arrested him and held him in a small prison just outside Avignon for the night.”

“And where is he now?” Prefect Gerard asks, his voice rising an octave on the last word, but he’s still calm.

“Dead,” Javert says. “He attempted to escape when I was taking him from the jail to begin the journey here, he attacked me and I was forced to shoot. Given his attack, a non-fatal shot was near impossible; the boy was much stronger than he appeared, skilled in combat.”

The Prefect examines the splatters of crimson against the white handkerchief, fingers running over the red embroidered ‘R. Enjolras’ along the edge.

“Where did the bullet hit?”

“His heart,” Javert answers instantly, sounding believable even to himself. “I pulled this from the breast pocket of his coat.”

“And you’ve brought the body?”

Javert regards the Prefect with a coolness he does not feel. He is not accustomed to lying.

“You expected me to bring a corpse on a week and a half long journey across France in midsummer?” Javert asks, more petulant that he intended, voice cool with annoyance. “It would have begun decomposing. Particularly in this wretched heat.”

“Hmmm. You make a solid point,” the Prefect responds. “What has become of it then?”

“I left it with the local police for his family to come and claim. They live in Marseilles, only a few days journey away. The boy’s father is of French aristocratic blood and his mother the daughter of a wealthy American heiress and a French general, and they were likely to make a great ruckus if the boy is not interred in their own mausoleum,” Javert replies, hands clenching in his lap as he spits out lie after lie. “If they do not come quickly, he will be buried in an unmarked grave as is befitting any such treasonous scum, no matter his bloodline.”

“This is not the way we’d hoped this case would end,” Prefect Gerard remarks, storing the bloodied handkerchief back into the small bag Javert hands him and storing it in his desk. “His majesty and his advisors were keen on putting the boy on trial, on making an example of him. There’s talk of commuting Charles Jeanne’s sentence from death to life in prison because of public anger-we do not need a mob-so the king will be angry about this. There had been discussions in your absence, of interrogating Enjolras for information and staining his image in the eyes of the people. A martyr made, which I’m sure is what they all wanted. So that executing him would have been a victory for the king, a message to the people that they should trust him and not some rebellious republican fools.”

“Surely…”

“Now it will only be seen as a power struggle on the part of the police,” Prefect Gerard says, interrupting. “Yet another young man killed by the hand of a royalist lackey, yet another abuse of authority. The people of Paris were not ready to rise when those rebels called, but they are most furious now, and Louis-Phillipe and his supporters in the nobility do not wish to further inspire that, do not wish to inspire the sans-culottes, to arouse any revolutionary sensibilities among any secret republicans in the Chamber of Deputies.”

“I did my duty,” Javert says, angry at the continual lies he’s telling, but also at the insult he feels in his superior’s words. “I will fill out the paperwork, go before the king and the Chamber myself…”

“You have been an excellent officer for many years Javert,” the Prefect responds, folding his hands on his desk. “But you have not been yourself as of late, have been on edge, particularly during this case. Perhaps the air in Paris has put you in bad humors, perhaps you are simply exhausted from all your years of service, but I think that it may be time for you to retire. For your health.”

Javert feels as if someone sent both their fists flying at lightning speed into his stomach, and for a moment all the breath leaves him. He clears his throat, desperate to remain calm until his air returns. The Prefect is not forcing retirement on him for worry over his health: he forces retirement on him because in his eyes, he has embarrassed the force.

Though, Javert supposes, if he knew the truth Javert would be in prison himself.

Perhaps that is what he deserves.

But perhaps not.

The same question haunts, the same song, merely a different verse.

“Monsieur Prefect,” Javert tries, holding back that oh so familiar voice, that voice that mere days ago was encouraging him to show mercy and turns on him as soon as the opportunity strikes.

_You deserve this._

_You let the boy go._

_You let Valjean go._

 “I assure you I am most able to keep working,” Javert continues. “I very seriously doubt this case would have turned out any differently; Enjolras was a reckless boy, and he met the fate that he was surely destined for.”

“The king would have preferred to set that destiny himself,” his superior says firmly. “You have done exceedingly successful work for many years, inspector, but is it not best to retire when we are at our best rather than faltering into mediocrity? It is not an insult, Javert. But nor is it a suggestion.”

It _is_ an insult, Javert thinks, lips pursing, but he cannot argue with this man or risk losing the retirement pension he needs to survive if he’s being forced into this. He might be a frugal man, but there is not enough to survive forever on the funds he’s put aside, unless he decides once more to return to the bridge.

But something tells him that solution is long past. Neither wrong, nor right, all actions do not sit well within his breast but the bridge is a solution long past; cowardice he has not the bravery to take.

“I shall give you a month’s time to complete the paperwork on your cases and pass on open ones to other officers. I also would like the paperwork for this case in particular on my desk by tomorrow morning. We will discuss the needed documents for your pension.”

He rises from his chair, a sign it is time for Javert to go, and in that moment, the self-satisfied look on the man’s face washes away all respect Javert ever had for him. Javert inclines his head in the barest of nods as response before leaving the office.

The station is silent, as if everyone present was attempting to listen in on his conversation with the Prefect, and Javert ignores their silence, ignores Betrand’s voice piercing through it, the blood pounding so fiercely behind his eyes so that all he sees is red.

* * *

Seven days after Enjolras’ return home, Combeferre knocks on Grantaire’s door, listening closely for a response. There’s a garbled, weary “come in” and Combeferre enters, offering a smile to his ill friend.

“You are ever the early bird,” Grantaire remarks, sitting up in bed, shifting to rest against the pillows.

“Did I wake you?” Combeferre asks. “I had hoped not to…”

“No,” Grantaire says with a shake of his head, eyes far less bloodshot than in previous days. “I slept rather restlessly and awoke about half an hour ago.”

“I’m hoping that a sound sleep will return to you here in the next few days,” Combeferre replies, reaching up a hand to feel Grantaire’s forehead with the back of his palm, relieved when Grantaire doesn’t flinch; his horrific hallucinations made him jumpy, and Combeferre’s glad to see that side-effect subsides. And if need be I can give you a small dose of Laudanum to help with sleep. Hmm. Your fever’s nearly vanished; you’re just a tad warm still. How are you feeling?”

“Better than I have,” Grantaire admits, running a hand through untamable curls. “Though honestly still rather like horse shit, if you want the entire truth.”

“I do,” Combeferre says, sitting hesitantly on the edge of Grantaire’s bed. “But you are doing so very admirably, Grantaire. There is no way to eradicate alcohol entirely from your life, not with the questionable nature of water in some areas of France, but I think if you abstain from hard liquor, just drink wine when this process is complete, it will be much easier to maintain.”  Combeferre pauses, eyes on Grantaire’s expression which borders on his usual disbelief. He presses Grantaire’s hand as he would with Enjolras or Courfeyrac and perseveres. “This is no small thing you’ve attempted, my friend, and it is very much courageous. This is of course the hardest part, but it will always be a struggle, but I believe in you. We all believe in you.”

Grantaire meets Combeferre’s eyes for a moment and then looks away. Combeferre’s stomach sinks; he desires Grantaire to know how proud they all are of him, but he can only say the words so many times. It is up to Grantaire whether or not they sink in entirely, a choice that Combeferre, that Courfeyrac, that Feuilly or Marius cannot make for him, a choice that even Enjolras cannot make for him.

“Has Enjolras awoken?” Grantaire asks.

“Not yet,” Combeferre says, frowning slightly, stomach sinking further at the mention of Enjolras rather than uplifting sensation he normally relates to his friend, the ball of worry growing exponentially by the day. Enjolras is often a cause for concern to Combeferre, even prior to the barricade; he worked too much, ate and slept too little, but Enjolras’ current state has unearthed a new, deeper, foreign level of concern. “He’s,” Combeferre pauses again, thinking over his wording “…been sleeping rather late recently; not surprising of course, it _will_ pass but…well…he has a long convalescence ahead of him, on more than one level.””

“And how many times _has_ he been out of bed?” Grantaire presses.

“Well, I put him on bed rest for the first four days,” Combeferre says, curious as to where this is leading. “This is only the third day since I said we could try letting him sit downstairs for short periods.”

“But to my knowledge he has not asked to do so.”

“No. No he has not,” Combeferre says, worry pinching at his forehead. “But I’m giving him some time; we have all been through a great deal of trauma, and Enjolras through even more, both physically and emotionally. May I ask if you’re getting at something?”

“He’s depressive,” Grantaire says, point blank, a departure from the usual verbosity he often disguises his opinions in. “I know of what I speak, Combeferre. On what previous occasion has Enjolras been so pleasant a patient when he’s been ill?”

This is not a new thought for Combeferre to entertain this week at all, he finds his memory often reflecting on previous incidences and almost ruefully longing for a sharp word or spark of irritation from Enjolras at his continued incapacitation.

“This is something different, Grantaire. He’s understandably upset, he’s been shot, overdosed, faces a life as a fugitive, for heaven’s sake. And his experience in the jail was horrific, he worries for us all, blames himself,” Combeferre says, massaging circles into the side of his head as he speaks. “This is all to be expected, and it’s why he’s not himself. It’s why I want to give him some time to sort it out before leaping to conclusions. If he is depressed, in this situation it is still unsurprising, but we will help him work through it.”

“I am all for giving him time to recover himself, he certainly deserves that,” Grantaire says, and he looks up at Combeferre, holding the gaze this time. “But I fear him never doing so, I fear it Combeferre. When men like Enjolras fly, they fly as high as Icarus himself, but when they fall…” Grantaire doesn’t finish, his head falling into his hands, fingers twisting through his hair.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says, covering his friend’s hand with his own as he so often does when Enjolras is distressed, a gesture that almost always instantly calms. “No matter if Enjolras is depressed, traumatized, upset, whatever is happening, I know he will come back to us. Slightly changed perhaps, but still Enjolras. Of that I can assure you. He only needs time, our love, our support, our belief. He needs that more than ever. If he weren’t severely out of sorts, I’d be even more concerned.”

Grantaire nods, but speaks again, voice slightly muffled. “Yes, but you musn’t let him slip through time’s cracks, Combeferre. None of us should. You know Enjolras well enough to know that he is a man of action; he needs it, requires it. You know as well as anyone that Enjolras, even a traumatized, depressed Enjolras, needs a goal, an activity through which he can channel his emotions. I just…I only…his light is so bright I cannot bear to see…”

“Shhh,” Combeferre says, squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder. “We will all figure this out. Together. As Jehan might say, we will feel the entire spectrum of our emotions and emerge out the other side, renewed. Cracked for certain, but reinvigorated.”

“You are so certain,” Grantaire whispers, the pain in his voice entering Combeferre’s own heart and squeezing. “How are all of you always so _certain_?”

“Because, in my own mind at least, it is far better to hope, to fight, to try for the light than simply allow darkness to forever hold sway,” Combeferre says, a melancholy smile alighting on his lips. “Darkness comes as night falls, but does not the sun always rise?”

“You sound like Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and there’s the tiniest light in his eyes.

Combeferre feels his heart lift slightly.

“Enjolras and I bonded over words such as these,” Combeferre adds. “It’s probably not a surprise that his have become mine and mine his. Melded together by glue, as Bossuet once said.”

Grantaire’s eyes flicker away again at the mention of Bossuet, and Combeferre feels as if he’s lost his friend against somewhere in the sea of his withdrawal, of his skepticism, of the demons still playing in his mind, even if they do not visibly present themselves. They claw at him, dousing the light that Combeferre senses burgeoned in Grantaire’s soul the day he met Enjolras, the day he cemented his friendship with all of them. The light is there, Combeferre’s certain of that, but this constant push and pull of Grantaire’s own making prevents it from shining, prevents Grantaire from allowing it to take root and fill him up. It’s grown brighter, that tiny flame, it only needs a spark.

But Enjolras’ temporarily dimmed light, the light that floods everything and clears the path to the future, directly connects to Grantaire’s soul in a way Combeferre cannot fully comprehend just yet. It is beautiful and frightening all at once, and he thinks that if he saw belief roar to life in Grantaire, that if he saw that belief joined with Enjolras’ own, that it might truly be something to behold, given both of their rather intense, explosive personalities. Enjolras had said before that he believed Grantaire had a spark to add to their fire, if only he would realize that fact, realize his own worth. But communication between Enjolras and Grantaire has never been an easy thing, though Combeferre’s been pleased to see it much improved since the barricade. But they are connected, that much has always been clear to Combeferre.

“I know how close you were with Bossuet and Joly,” Combeferre says, soft and understanding. “How much time you spent with them. Actually I’ve been thinking of writing Musichetta, I only worry for revealing that Enjolras is alive if the wrong person opens the post, but I’m sure I could figure a way to tell her, she’s a very clever woman. It’s…it’s all right to talk about it, Grantaire. To openly grieve them. We all miss them. Terribly.”

“It hurts to speak of them,” Grantaire says, voice hoarse. “Of any of them.”

“I know,” Combeferre says. “I know. But it also heals, or so I’ve found. Slowly, of course, and part of it will always hurt. But talking of them still makes me smile as well. They are a part of us.”

Grantaire nods, looking at him before looking away again.

“Are you up to eating this morning?” Combeferre asks. “You really should, you haven’t been able to sustain much recently, and it would do your body good.”

“I think I might be able,” Grantaire says, reaching for his dressing gown and pulling it on. He stops half way through and places a hand on Combeferre’s arm. “Thank you. For everything, Combeferre. I’d be rather in a worse place with this were it not for you.”

 “Any time, my friend,” Combeferre replies. “Any time.”

“Combeferre,” Grantaire says, turning around once more in the door way as they leave the room. “Think on what I said. About Enjolras.”

Combeferre smiles thinly, the now familiar and disdained sickness in his belly looming again as the thought itself rears at Grantaire’s words. But he nods and holds the door for Grantaire, still shaky on his feet, but steady enough to venture downstairs.

They breakfast with Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Marius, Cosette, Gavroche, and Valjean, Enjolras’ absence a near tangible sensation among them. After the tea has been finished the conversation devolved from pleasantries into plans for the day Combeferre politely excuses himself, the urge to check on Enjolras now uncomfortably pressing. He catches Courfeyrac’s eyes as he exits, and Courfeyrac nods, knowing just where he’s going. He reaches Enjolras’ door and knocks, hearing a very soft assent to enter.

“Good morning,” Combeferre says.

Enjolras is sitting up in bed, his knees drawn up beneath the sheets, staring pensively into space.

“Did you just awake? We were all eating breakfast and rather missed your presence.”

“About twenty minutes ago, perhaps?” Enjolras says softly, eyes flicking up toward the clock, lips quirking into a melancholy half smile at Combeferre’s presence.

Combeferre makes to sit in the chair next to the bed, but at seeing Enjolras’ eyes wide with a foreign sort of desperation, just on the edge of panic, Combeferre elects for sitting on the bed, and at the tug of Enjolras’ hand, sits back against the pillows, stretching his legs out fully. Their shoulders just touch, and Enjolras shifts almost imperceptibly to lean slightly against Combeferre.

“Grantaire’s doing better today,” Combeferre says by way of making conversation. He’s used to exceedingly comfortable silences with Enjolras, but this is not the same, this feels dreadfully wrong. “And Feuilly’s helping Gavroche choose some children’s titles from the library for when you start teaching him to read, when you’re better. He’s quite set on it being you, it seems. Courfeyrac was buttering up Madame Bellard and Touissant into extra breakfast pastries as usual.” Combeferre takes Enjolras hand in his, linking their fingers and examining them. “Might you feel like coming downstairs for a bit today? I think it would be good for you.”

Enjolras looks at him, and the expression in his eyes internally startles Combeferre; he sees the fire there, sees the blue light, but both are shrouded by darker shades of blue-grey, encased in pure sadness mixed with webs of hazy frustration. He looks…lost.

And Enjolras never looks lost.

Momentarily doubtful of a decision, perhaps, but even that is rare.

Combeferre knows this reaction is normal, is expected, but he wants to know what exactly this is, specifically, so he can help Enjolras through it. The emotions, the mind, the effects of trauma, the psychology of it is studied so little currently that medically speaking he has only a small amount to go on, and will have to trust that, will have to trust his instincts, trust his heart. This is a grey area to which Combeferre wishes there was a black and white answer.

“I don’t know that I feel up to it today,” Enjolras answers, a variation on the same theme of answers that he’s given for the two previous days. “I…I am sorry Combeferre.” True sorrow, a very authentic apology injects Enjolras’ words.

“Still not feeling well?” Combeferre asks gently, and falls back on the familiar gesture of feeling Enjolras’ forehead thereby giving Enjolras an out, a physical excuse if he’s not yet ready to talk. “A tad warm yet, just like Grantaire.”

Enjolras smiles wanly. “No, a little weak and shaky, perhaps but better than I have. The pain’s still there of course, but that’s there wherever I go…I just…I’m not…”

”It’s quite all right,” Combeferre says, brushing a stray blonde hair out of Enjolras’ eyes with his free hand, as Enjolras hasn’t let go of the other.

“I must say, I never thought I’d see the day when you wanted to stay in bed.” Combeferre says with a smile and an attempt at humour. “There have been times Joly and I would have sold a left arm each to keep you in bed.”

Enjolras half smiles again, but at the mention of Joly his entire air becomes saturated with melancholy, and he says nothing.

Combeferre feels his smile drop and the strange silence resumes. “This isn’t a pressured question, not at all, I’d only like to know…to help, if I can but might you tell me why you don’t want to go downstairs?”

“I am not myself,” Enjolras says, eyes staring ahead at something that no doubt resides within his mind, and for once, Combeferre cannot read it. “I feel…almost numb, and I am not used to that…lack of sensation. And yet sometimes I am so overcome with sorrow I can scarcely breathe…I will certainly not make good company until I sort myself out.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre breathes. “Everyone loves your company, no matter what sort of state you’re in.”

“Yes perhaps,” Enjolras says, focusing back on Combeferre. “But I do not wish to inflict it upon them. Will you stay for a bit? I do not mean to take over your morning, I merely…your company…”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, gently ceasing Enjolras’ ramble. “Yes. I quite forgot when I came in, but Valjean received a response from your mother, and she and your grandmother will be here in three days.”

“My grandmother?” Enjolras asks, a smidge of tone returning.

“You love your grandmother,” Combeferre says, bewildered at the reaction. he remembers meeting Enjolras’ grandmother, a charming woman much like Flora, albeit a bit louder, and utterly devoted to her grandson. Enjolras was extraordinarily fond of her, particularly at a time when relations with his father were so fractious on account of Enjolras’ growing political thinking and Violet, an American heiress much more sympathetic to Enjolras’ growing revolutionary zeal.

“Yes, I do,” Enjolras agrees. And finally, there is something akin to a true smile on Enjolras lips, as he gestures at his leg. “There’ll be a Joly-esque scale of fussing when she sees me like this. Whenever…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I only know she’s quite…overbearing at times. But I…I shall be pleased to see them.”

The tiniest glimmer of a smile disappears under the melancholy once more and Combeferre has to suppress a sigh and satisfy himself with the warm, solidity of Enjolras pressed to his side as Grantaire’s words flash in his head:

_When men like Enjolras fly, they fly as high as Icarus himself, but when they fall…_

Enjolras might have hit the ground hard, Combeferre tells himself, but that fire, that light, Combeferre knows it’s still there, can sense it sure as he feels the warmth of his friends skin and the gleam in his eyes. Enjolras is as human as any of them, he thinks immensely, he feels so deeply it hurts him sometimes, gets angry, makes mistakes, fears, smiles, cries. Enjolras wavers between heaven and earth, all the qualities of an angel attributed to a still very human being, and Combeferre will shine that halo again, wipe away the dirt and the soil, leaving the dents as reminders, and give it back to Enjolras shining as good as new. Enjolras will help that process along himself, Combeferre knows, because Enjolras is the single most determined, resilient person he knows.

But if only he knew _how_ to do this.

* * *

When Marius takes her hand as they stroll along the Rhone River in Avignon, Cosette feels herself relax. She’s had many homes in her life; one hated inn, one cloistered convent, several reclusive homes with just her Papa and Toussaint, and now this new ancestral mansion with a gaggle of what are starting to feel very much like several older brothers and one younger one, but none quite so comforting as the one she feels in Marius’ presence. She’d been hesitant to go out today, given the state of both Enjolras and Grantaire, but Courfeyrac reassured her that both would encourage them to go, and when she’d brought Grantaire dinner last night under the guise of checking on him, he’d told her with a ghost of a wry smile that he would start drinking liquor again if she didn’t go.

“Something on your mind, darling?” Marius asks, no longer shy with terms of endearment as he’d been at first. “There’s a distance in your eyes.”

“Nothing new, particularly,” she says, looking over and squeezing his hand. “I only worry for Enjolras, for Grantaire, I feel like Papa is unsettled recently, since the encounter with Inspector Javert, and yet despite everything, he also seems content with so many young people in the house. I think he feels purposeful, with all of us. It is like having the large family we both missed out on.”

“I agree about your father,” Marius replies, grinning wide. “He looks younger, I think, than when I first met him, which seems odd given everything that’s happened, but you’re right, I think it gives him purpose, keeps the life pumping through him.” Marius’ smile turns downward, morphing into a frown. “But yes, I worry about Enjolras too, and Grantaire. But I trust that they’ll be all right, in the end. Enjolras is… he is an incredibly resilient person, and if I know him as I think I do, eventually this will only serve to lend him more strength than he already has. Survival of such horrible events tends to do that sometimes,” he says, looking meaningfully at Cosette, the statement as true in her case as in Enjolras’ “And Grantaire…I have never seen Grantaire so determined about anything before. There are mountains ahead, but I have faith that they, that we all, can climb them.”

“You are ever poetic,” Cosette says, bridging the small space between them, shoulders brushing. “I adore it.”

“Prouvaire was the one who encouraged me,” Marius says, a small blush coloring his cheeks. “I have thought…I have thought I might start writing poetry again, in his memory.”

“A splendid idea! I feel I would have loved Jehan, from the way you talk of him. In fact I rather feel I would have loved all of them dearly, with the stories all of you tell, I feel as if I knew them myself,” Cosette says, stopping as Marius’ steps cease. “Where are we, Marius?”

Marius’ blush deepens.

“I searched Avignon shortly after we arrived because I remembered this park from visits in my childhood,” Marius admits. “I rather thought it resembled the Luxemborg Gardens, where I first laid eyes on you.”

Warmth of memory fills Cosette to the tips of her fingers and toes as she surveys the park, looking back at Marius again and planting a kiss on his lips before pulling back with a grin.

_Does he know I’m alive, do I know if he’s real? Does he see what I see, does he feel what I feel?_

“Shall we walk a little further?” he asks. “There’s a rather lovely spot just down the way.”

Cosette nods, and they walk in contented, comfortable, silence. They come to a halt in front of the largest tree in the park, and it envelopes them in the arms of its shade.

And then quite suddenly, Marius is on one knee.

“Marius,” Cosette says, putting one hand to her chest as Marius takes the other. “What…”

“I had an entire speech planned that has completely vanished from my mind,” Marius says, suddenly breathless. “And Courfeyrac, he told me I wasn’t allowed to bring notes. But Cosette, you…your light, your beautiful, warm, light lit up a life I didn’t know was so grey until I saw you. And suddenly, Cosette, I was alive again, truly, really alive. You have shown me who I am, given me confidence in that man, and I love you more than I it possible to love anyone.” He pauses, and Cosette feels happy tears springing to her eyes, offering out her other hand for Marius to take after he fishes a small box out of his pocket. “All of that being said, Cosette Fauchelevent, will you marry me?”

“Yes!” Cosette exclaims, quite unable to stop from throwing her arms around Marius even though he’s on the grass. “Yes!”

Marius gathers her in his arms, chuckling softly at first until it grows into full-blown laughter, echoing against the clear blue sky. They both stand up straight after a moment, and Marius takes her hand again, slipping a breathtaking diamond ring with clusters of pearls around the edges onto her finger, and Cosette thinks she’s never seen something so stunning in her life. It fits perfectly.

“My mother’s,” Marius says, tears pooling in his own eyes now. “My grandfather gave it to me just when we left Paris. And just in case you were curious, I asked your father for his permission to marry you a few weeks ago, I was merely delayed asking because of everything that’s happened. I wanted it to be…”

“The right moment,” she finishes for him, resting her forehead against his. “I’m so pleased you asked him, I know it meant a great deal. Of course I do not think he would have denied us, but I know he appreciates that type of gesture.”

“I know how much you mean to each other,” Marius says, interlacing their fingers together. “It only seemed right.”

“Yes,” Cosette whispers, filled at the same time with overwhelming love for her father, and the dull ache of missing the mother she never really knew, the mother she wishes was here to share the news with, a mother to help her select the best possible gown. “Yes it does. I love you, Marius.”

“And I you.”

They stand there like that for a few moments, heads together, fingers intertwined, basking in the summer sunshine.

“We must go tell everyone!” Cosette proclaims, tugging on Marius’ hand and back toward the street where the carriage waits. “They will be so be so excited!”

She pulls him along, and Marius follows, amused, joyous laughter bursting from his lips once more.

* * *

Feuilly closes the door behind him as he leaves Enjolras' room, a heavy sigh deflating his chest. Courfeyrac leans against the bannister at the top of the stairs and turns when he hears Feuilly’s exhale of breath.

 "He still doesn't want to come downstairs?"

 Feuilly shakes his head. "I didn't even ask. He just seemed so...defeated. It’s unnerving…I’ve…I’ve never seen him like this, or anywhere close."

Courfeyrac clasps his shoulder. "He will overcome it. We must persevere, give him every chance to come back to us. If he needs time and space, then he shall have it, and when he needs our entertainment and closeness, he shall have that too. Enjolras is a complex man, but I know him well. As well as I know myself. Better, even."

 Feuilly grins. "You are wise as ever, Courfeyrac."

 "People really ought to listen to me more often." Courfeyrac announces, steering Feuilly towards the stairs.

 "Is that so?"

 "Indeed. Now, if you choose to listen again, you might discover the hiding place of the extra pastries left over this morning." Courfeyrac says, slinging an arm around Feuilly's shoulders as they head downstairs.

 "That is because you hid them there, Courfeyrac."

 "Lies and slander!" He cries, hand clasped over his heart.

 Feuilly pushes his shoulder, much cheered by Courfeyrac's antics, but still catches the other man's glance to the closed door just visible at the top of the stairs.

 Tea and pastries in the afternoon is a luxury Feuilly decides he could well get, and probably has already gotten, used to, though he has to admit, even if only to himself just yet, that he feels the need to work, to contribute to the household financially, even though he knows it is not needed, it is what he is accustomed to. He is in the process of teasing Courfeyrac about the belly he might develop if he continues filching extra pastries every morning, to Courfeyrac's affronted indignation, when there is great clattering of running feet in the hallway and a great deal of delighted laughter.

Marius and Cosette burst into the room, glancing at the two of them, the tiniest pause in their breathless laughter at the continued absence of Enjolras before seizing each other and kissing chastely as ever.

 Courfeyrac catches on immediately. "You've done it?" He asks, as if there is any question. "You marvelous boy, you have done it!" He looks to Cosette, the hand she has stretched in front of her before, ring glittering from her finger, before seizing Marius in a fierce embrace.

"Marius proposed." Cosette says to Feuilly, who is grinning widely; their delight infectious.

 "All my congratulations." He says, and kisses Cosette's cheeks before setting about trying to peel Courfeyrac away from Marius. "Do not accidentally throttle the man in your gusto before he makes it up the aisle, all right?"

 “You sound ever like Combeferre,” Courfeyrac shoots back, a bright, starry smile lighting up his entire face, relinquishing Marius and seizing Cosette's hands instead, hardly able to restrain his own joy.

“Well, someone should, as he’s out walking the grounds with Gavroche and cannot be here to stand for himself,” Feuilly says, reaching out to shake Marius’ hand. But he pumps Marius’ hand in an enthusiastic hand shake himself, nonetheless.

“You fine fellow, you did it. You listened to me and I love it when people listen to me, you know. Everyone should, really.” Courfeyrac says, turning to Marius again to ruffle his hair. Marius groans audibly but still smiles.

 “Where is that scoundrel, Grantaire?” Courfeyrac asks. “This calls for a celebration! I assume your father is in the kitchen beside himself trying to figure out what to do, Cosette?”

“He did say he wanted to have a special meal,” she says, smiling still yet wider.

“Well then I shall go assist him,” Courfeyrac says. “And go see about Grantaire.”

“He’s sleeping…” Feuilly tries, but Courfeyrac’s already out the door. “He is impossible sometimes.” Feuilly sighs, but there’s an affectionate smirk on his lips.

“Incorrigible,” Cosette agrees, fond. "And Enjolras, is he..."

Feuilly gives her a thin smile. "Abed yet. But he will be delighted, Cosette, you must tell him at once." He says, a truer smile breaking over his features once more, unable to hold it back.

* * *

Enjolras is reading a book Feuilly brought him from the Gillenormand library when he’d brought Enjolras lunch to his room. Enjolras’ eyes stray from the words on the page as he thinks about the moment Feuilly had stood by the edge of the bed, passed the book to Enjolras with relish, excitement over its contents palpable in the way he’d gesticulated with his hands and chattered; Feuilly, as a general rule, doesn’t chatter and that was telling in itself. He’d hesistated after setting down the tray, hoping for an indication from Enjolras to stay, to talk as they hadn’t in so long, but it didn’t come and Feuilly had given Enjolras a smile and left.

Enjolras, for his part, had closed his eyes as the door closed, guilt washing over him. He wants to be himself again, wants to sit in the library and talk until the small hours of the morning with Feuilly as they used to, he wants to get out of bed, but he cannot bring himself to do it.

The book is fascinating, and for a few moments at a time grants him a reprieve from the sadness which has a hold of his heart, the swells of guilt which crush him whenever he thinks of his departed friends. It doesn’t take much to bring them to mind, a word, a phrase, another thought, the shadow the curtains cast over his legs, it all brings their faces, their deaths to the fore of his mind, sharp, acrid and painful.

He is lost, staring into the middle distance when the sound of feet running up the stairs snaps him back to his room, dispelling the gun shots in his ears, the tang of smoke in his nose and throat and the red of a hundred wounds against white shirts in his eye.

“Cosette, he might be sleeping,” Marius chides, but his gleeful, delighted voice is far from Marius’ usual dreamy, shy tones.

“Nonsense!” she exclaims.

“We should knock at the very least.”

“Oh, all right then,” she says, and Enjolras hears the rap at the door. “Enjolras?” Cosette calls. “Might we come in?”

Enjolras calls his permission to enter and Cosette nearly bursts through the door, eyes shining with utter joy.

“I cannot even play games and make you guess,” she says. She puts her hand out to Enjolras, and he sees the ring Marius showed them weeks ago, the ring once belonging to his long deceased mother, handed down to him by his grandfather after all these years to propose to Cosette. “Marius proposed! Can you imagine?”

For a long moment Enjolras can only stare at the gems on her fingers, then glance at each of them in turn, their happiness and joy filling the room with light and banishing some of his melancholy. Almost unbidden, a true, wide smile graces his face and he says “Congratulations.”

The pair of them tremble with excitement from where they stand, and he almost feels a ghost of laughter rise in his throat.

“Might I be permitted to kiss the hand of the bride to be?” Enjolras asks Cosette, feeling a smile pull at his own lips, the first real smile he’s felt in days.

“Why of course you may, citizen,” Cosette says with a tiny curtsy, holding her hand out again as Enjolras presses his lips lightly against it.

“Citizen?” Enjolras asks, curious.

“Combeferre was telling me that’s the world republicans use to address people as a term of equality,” Cosette says, blushing slightly, excited fervor in her eyes. “I thought I’d try it out on you first.”

“You wear it well,” Enjolras says. “The word and the ring. Congratulations to the two of you, truly.” He accepts Marius’ hand when he puts it out, squeezing it.

Enjolras feels a chink of light cast into the darkness surrounding his heart as of late just by virtue of Cosette’s smile, of the sparkle in Marius’ eyes when he looks back at his intended.

Marius, a shy, quiet, but extremely intelligent orphan who’d had the wherewithal to leave the only family he’d ever known, his grandfather, because of his political beliefs, who refused to take anything other than money he earned himself and lived in one of the poorest parts of Paris, who came to join them, changing his Bonapartist beliefs once he came into their fold through Courfeyrac. Cosette, a young woman who had experienced so much heartache in her childhood, whose father abandoned her and whose mother was forced to leave her with the terrible Thenardier couple who abused her, half-starved her until she was rescued by Valjean. These two lonely souls coming together despite differences in class, in past, in circumstance, in birth, evaporates a fraction of the heaviness sitting like an anvil on Enjolras’ chest; it might not be battle, and it might not be a barricade, but this union is a future beauty existing in the present, and if they are blessed with children, those children will grow up in the lessons of their parents, will not be subject to the societal norms which they all fight so hard against.

“Might you come downstairs and celebrate with us, Enjolras?” Marius asks, tentative but hopeful. “If you’re feeling able?”

“We’d so love to have you,” Cosette adds, voice tempered with an understanding Enjolras appreciates; if he doesn’t come, she won’t be angry, but they both hope he will. “It wouldn’t feel complete without you, after all. And even just a few minutes would be lovely.”

Enjolras finds he cannot refuse them.

“I think I can manage it for a little while,” he says, sitting up further against the pillows. “I would be pleased to join you. Might you send Combeferre up to me when Feuilly finds him? Or Courfeyrac? And then I’ll be right down.”

“Certainly,” Marius says. “We’ll send one or both of them straight up.”

Cosette squeezes his hand, following Marius out the door and leaving Enjolras alone for a moment. He releases a breath as they leave, resting his head in his hands, heart racing visibly beneath the skin of his chest.

_You can do this_ , he tells himself. _These are your friends, your dearest, dearest friends. They will not begrudge you your abnormal behavior, not given all you’ve experienced._

A few long minutes pass and he hears the door open, looking up to find not only Combeferre, but Courfeyrac entering; Combeferre approaches, Courfeyrac close behind. Enjolras’ breathing quickens; he’d hoped to have calmed by the time someone returned, and yet he feels worse by the second.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre whispers. “What…”

“Nothing, nothing, I’m fine,” Enjolras says quickly, swallowing back the fluttering, gut-wrenching panic that only makes him want to run, run outside into the fresh air and just _breathe_ , but he cannot, he cannot run because he can scarcely walk without assistance right now.

“If you do not want to go downstairs,” Combeferre says, sitting down beside him, a hand on his back. “You do not have to do so. Everyone will understand.”

“I _do_ want to,” Enjolras insists. “I just…I just need a moment, I don’t…”

Combeferre runs a knowing, careful hand up and down Enjolras’ back and Enjolras’ leans into him, hands shaking even as he holds his head in their grasp.

“What is _wrong_ with me?” he chokes out, words biting, jagged, and hoarse.

At this, Courfeyrac strides over, in tune instantly with Enjolras, his emotional intelligence going into overdrive.

“May I?” he asks, holding his hands out to Enjolras.

Enjolras finally looks up again, still leaning into Combeferre, but offers his hands hesitantly out to Courfeyrac, who grasps them warmly within his own.

“If I am correct, and I think I am,” Courfeyrac says slowly. “You are experiencing an attack of nerves. Correct, Combeferre? Joly used to experience these did he not? Not quite on this level, but he did.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, continuing the movement of his hand on Enjolras’ back. “Joly was the most cheerful person, so sometimes it was easy to forget his nerves, but he learned how to cope with them, the mechanisms of doing so that when it happened he knew better what to do, but we were all there when he needed us. It is normal, Enjolras, I promise you, given the severity and the horror of what you have been through. If he were here, he would say the same to you.”

“In layman’s terms, you have not lost your senses, if that’s what you fear,” Courfeyrac says a lightness in his tone that Enjolras latches onto. “We all experienced the barricade, the loss of our friends, but you, my friend…”

Enjolras feels Combeferre’s arm place itself loosely around Enjolras’ shoulders, not too tight in case it makes him feel trapped, and Enjolras closes his eyes, listening to Courfeyrac’s words.

“You, my friend,” Courfeyrac continues. “Not only do you have that in your mind, but you were also shot twice, you nearly died from infection. We watched you nearly die. And then we watched as you were taken away from us, had to sacrifice yourself to keep the rest of us safe. You watched a woman die in your arms, you were overdosed with a very, very potent drug, you had a knife placed to your neck, could have had your life ripped away once again, in front of us, in front of Feuilly and Grantaire. And then you returned to us, hurting in ways you have _never_ hurt before, in ways we have never seen you hurt before.”

Courfeyrac’s every word pierces him, stabs him, but they also present the reality of what he’s been through, and for some reason that calms him for now, and his breathing slows as he soaks in the presence of these two men who are irremovable parts of his soul. He feels safe, with his hands in Courfeyrac’s, Combeferre a warmth at his side and it gives him strength.

“I want to be _myself_ ,” Enjolras says, emphasizing the last word. “I want to fight on, it is everything, it is…”

“You will,” Combeferre says, turning Enjolras’ face to meet his eyes. “It will require time, my friend, but you will, of that I am sure.  But we are here for you, always. Just lean on us, let us be your strength, for a time.”

“How _much_ time?” Enjolras presses. “I don’t want any of you waiting to live your lives because of me, because I am a fugitive, because I must adjust and invent and lie about who I am.”

“We must _all_ adjust,” Combeferre emphasizes. “To our own circumstances and to yours. Together.”

Enjolras nods, feeling his heartbeat slow.

“Would you still like to go downstairs?” Combeferre asks, smiling just a little now.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, nodding. “Yes. I want to be there for Marius and Cosette.”

“I do say I’ve never seen Marius smile so much,” Courfeyrac says. “I daresay we shall be hearing soon about wedding plans.”

It is strange, Enjolras thinks, to see life going on around him when his own feels so stalled, but although it strikes a melancholy chord within him, it also gives him the determination to step out of bed. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, along with his cane, assist him down the stairs, pain shooting through his leg because he cannot yet bear taking the Laudanum, but he makes it, relieved when he hits solid floor. The three of them enter the formal dining room, and Enjolras sees everyone sitting around the table; Feuilly, Grantaire, Marius, Cosette, Gavroche, Valjean.

When they see him, smiles light up all their faces, and just for a moment, a moment he knows is not permanent, his mind, his heart, and his soul, are at rest.


	28. Emotions Explode

Courfeyrac jolts awake, drenched in sweat, the blackened tendrils of his nightmare still keeping a tight hold as an unrestrained sob bursts through the damn of his lips. He bites his lip against the sound; normally he’s unashamed to cry, and he’s in his own bed alone, but Enjolras’ room is right next to his, and despite the fact that his friend keeps to his bed as of late, he sleeps little.

Abstract, out of order images from his nightmare float in front of his face. He sees Enjolras growing paler and paler, Enjolras drowning himself in liquor, eyes dull, fire extinguished, that incredibly charming smile chased away by memories from which he cannot escape. He sees Grantaire as he was during his period of hallucinations, desperate, screaming, and terrified, with green eyes that don’t recognize friend from foe in his fear. He sees Combeferre weeping openly over a gravestone with Enjolras’ name, hair flecked with premature grey, Feuilly beside him, that intelligent, curious sparkle utterly removed from his hazel eyes, one shaking hand resting on Combeferre’s back as tears slide down his face.

He shakes his head; these aren’t real, these won’t happen, these won’t…

“Courfeyrac?” a sleep-drenched, hoarse voice says, breaking forth into his dark musings.

Courfeyrac turns, seeing Enjolras standing there, leaning hard on his cane, the other hand grasping the doorframe so tightly that all the blood floods to his fingertips.

Sometimes, Courfeyrac thinks, gazing raptly at Enjolras, there is a direct connection between his friends’ emotions and his own, between his soul and theirs.

“I’m sorry, Enjolras, did I wake you?” Courfeyrac says, instantly apologetic.

“I wasn’t fully asleep,” Enjolras admits. “And I heard you cry out…would it be all right if I sat? I rather…”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac says, scooting over so Enjolras can take the side of the bed closer to the door. “You needn’t ask or stand on principle with me, you know that. I’ve certainly spent enough of our friendship flinging your apartment door without asking and flopping down on your bed.” He grins suddenly, trying to chase the remnants of his nightmare away and adds wryly, “Often with you in it.”

Enjolras sends a small smile his way, walking slowly, stiffly toward the bed, but there’s a look on his face that indicates to Courfeyrac that he wants to make this short journey on his own, and Courfeyrac wants to grant him that one pleasure right now. Truth be told, he’d grant Enjolras anything within his power, if he could, health, happiness, but most of all the free, fair world he dreams of, that they all dream of, but Enjolras most of all.

But for now he can only grant him his independence, a comfortable bed, his presence, and a warm hand grasping his.

Enjolras sits carefully on the bed, wincing as he shifts his leg, propping the cane up against the wall. Coufeyrac almost mentions the lack of Laudanum, but thinks better of it; he knows Combeferre suggests it at every turn he can, but he also knows that he’d been overdosed with such a drug, he’d also be rather hesitant to ever ingest it again.

Enjolras catches his concerned scrutiny and waves it away. “Rather stiff and sore after all the excitement over the engagement yesterday. I’m much more concerned with you, are you alright?” He asks, turning the focus from himself, and wide, concerned eyes onto Courfeyrac. “I don’t mean to intrude, I only worry.”

 “You are not intruding,” Courfeyrac says, placing an affectionate had on Enjolras’ arm. Enjolras is polite certainly, but it’s been ages since he ever said anything of this sort to Courfeyrac; they’ve been content to come and go from each other’s apartments as they’ve seen fit without notice, though at least, Courfeyrac muses with a grin, Enjolras still knocks. “You could never intrude upon me, my friend. And I…I am fine, I think. Just nightmares. It is nothing new.”

“Are you certain?” Enjolras asks, and it warms Courfeyrac to see that very familiar penetrating gaze of disbelief. “I know you were having them before, but I have not heard you awake in the night recently.”

“I…it’s nothing, really, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, wincing at how terrible his lie is. He can tell falsehoods if he so chooses, but they fall flat when it comes to the Amis, with Enjolras and Combeferre in particular.

“You are lying to me,” Enjolras says, matter of fact.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac replies, uneasy, an emotion to which he is not accustomed, especially not in Enjolras’ presence.

“Whatever horrors you see, whatever terrible visions of that night you see, I am sure we all share them to some degree. You seem so plagued by them, but you don’t have to discuss them if you do not wish to.” Enjolras says, holding Courfeyrac’s gaze with a familiar intensity, before it breaks, he falters, and looks away to study his fingers, whatever fragment of himself he’s momentarily found fleeing once more. “I apologize for pressing.”

At this, at the sound of Enjolras’ lifeless tone, so devoid of its usual fervor, the images from his nightmares flashing in his mind once more, Coufeyrac cannot help it; he envelopes Enjolras into a fierce embrace, or as fierce as possible without causing him more pain. He feels Enjolras’ arms wrap around him in return, after barely a beat, feels how much thinner Enjolras is. Enjolras, though tall and slim with delicate features, his strength as a leader palpable in his slight frame, straight posture, muscle tone obvious beneath his skin from lessons with Bahorel; when Enjolras insisted on going into the more dangerous parts of Paris alone and Combeferre worried, Courfeyrac reassured him, because Enjolras was so very capable of defending himself.

 For the first time in his memory, not barring even the course of his terrible injuries and infection he feels so fragile, and Courfeyrac cannot voice how much that frightens him, because Enjolras is the opposite of that word in every way possible.

“You know how much we love and adore you, don’t you Enjolras?” Courfeyrac says, grasping at the fabric of Enjolras’ nightshirt as if this tight grasp will secure Enjolras’ being to his. So often recently he has felt as if the tighter he holds to Enjolras, the further away he slips. He’s always been open about how much he loves his friends, but he’s always been wittier about it, throwing in a joke with the compliment or profession of affection, but now he rather feels like he’s channeling Jehan’s complete, beautiful honesty, and that makes his heart lift and twist all at once.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, relaxing into Courfeyrac’s touch. “Yes of course I do.”

“We love and respect you as our leader of course,” Courfeyrac says, one hand tangling itself into Enjolras’ rarely loose curls. “But we love you first and foremost as our friend. Always.”

“I fear that I…that I sometimes cannot separate chief and friend,” Enjolras admits. “They are always intermingling. And I handed myself over to Javert as a chief, it was my responsibility, my duty. But I also did so as a friend, because of my own personal desire to protect you all, and I know it hurt all of you, and I…”

“You had no choice, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, pulling back and looking his friend directly in the eyes. “I know that. Combeferre knows that, he told me so himself.  He saw that once Javert arrived, your worst fears come to pass. Either you went with him or you died right there. Or we all went. All leaders want to protect their lieutenants, even if their lieutenants want to protect their leaders just as badly.” He gives Enjolras a prod in the chest to emphasise his point.

“My decisions on the barricade,” Enjolras says, emotional agony, guilt, slicing through his normally strong voice. “They…”

“No,” Courfeyrac says firmly. “I will not allow you to doubt yourself on this topic. You protected and defended the barricade, you made decisions that pained you, decisions I saw rip you apart, but choices you knew had to be made, choices not many men could make. You could not allow our comrades to think it all right to slaughter innocent shopkeepers who didn’t assist us. The artillery sergeant, Enjolras, perhaps that delay, saving the barricade for a time, allowed you time to send away those men you did, those men whose families still have them alive. One day, Enjolras, one day I promise you there will be no more bloody revolutions, not like this wretched business we must endure for freedom, brother killing brother simply because they’re on different sides.”

“Perhaps I do not belong in that world,” Enjolras says, looking away, voice a whisper, as if giving voice to his terrible thoughts might give them earthly power. “Perhaps I am only meant for violence and death and revolutions.”

“No,” Courfeyrac says again, arms wrapping around him once more. “You are light embodied, Enjolras, don’t you see? And one day you will not be too bright for the people to look on, they will bask in the light rather than squinting at it. And you will no longer need to split yourself between these two parts. We will battle on, of course, there will always be battles to fight, simply of a different kind. There is a place for you, my friend, I am telling you so. I know Combeferre has told you so. Your strength lies in your ability to do what other man cannot, to make those hard decisions.”

“I am not accustomed to feeling this way, to being treated as glass,” Enjolras says. “But I know I am behaving in a way that invites it. Combeferre worries so much, I see it, he worries I will shatter.”

“Combeferre worries,” Courfeyrac points out. “But he has also told me that he knows you will be able to put yourself back together. But the question here is do _you_ feel as if you might shatter?”

Enjolras pauses, thinking.

“Not shattered,” Enjolras replies, but his voice isn’t fearful, simply contemplative. “Sometimes I simply feel cracked, if that’s an appropriate word. I have not lost hope, I think I am incapable of that, I only feel lost, don’t know how to come back to myself. I need…”

“Time,” Courfeyrac finishes, squeezing Enjolras’ good shoulder.

“Perhaps,” Enjolras agrees. “But I do not want that affecting any of you, I want you to live, to fight on, I know you wanted to work in a firm focusing on the poor, Courfeyrac, you should look for one, do not let my situation slow you, _please_.”

“It will all settle,” Courfeyrac assures him.

“Promise me you will look,” Enjolras says, his tone frantic in a way Courfeyrac has never previously heard, fingers like iron between his own.

“I promise,” Courfeyrac says, worried again, but relieved, at least, that Enjolras is speaking to him about this, though he takes note that Enjolras avoids many specific mentions of the things that have happened to him from the end of the barricade forward. But he doesn’t broach it now, nor does he mention how the very same things visit his dreams nightly.  “How about you stay in here with me for the night? I’ll sleep better. Stupid nightmares. No place in reality.”

“You were dreaming of me,” Enjolras says. It’s a statement, not a question.

“In large part,” Courfeyrac answers. “But seeing the real you here beside me washes those terrible visions away.”

“Of course I shall stay then,” Enjolras says, shifting so he can slide under the covers, closing his eyes against a flash of pain Courfeyrac doesn’t miss, but he slides under the blankets as well, feeling the heat radiating off Enjolras’ form, and reveling in that comfort.

And soon, both have fallen once again into slumber, their fingers still wrapped together.

* * *

Enjolras awakes the next morning, early, he suspects, given the rays of sunlight filtering through the window in orange hues, as if the sun itself is still not quite awoken. He blinks, confused for a moment until he remembers he fell asleep in Courfeyrac’s bed, said friend still asleep beside him. He contemplates Courfeyrac for a moment; he’s clutching a pillow, facing Enjolras, still and peaceful with no signs of the dreams which have disturbed him so for many a night. The deep cut over his eyebrow, one of the injuries received during the fighting, has healed to a smooth pink line in the month since said fighting came to an end.

His study is interrupted by a gentle rap on the door, and he turns his head; Valjean enters, a small smile on his face at Enjolras’ questioning look.

“I had thought to come check on you and bid you good morning,” Valjean says. “Only to find you weren’t in your own bed.”

“It seems a habit of mine,” Enjolras jokes lightly, sitting up against the pillows. “I find myself worrying over my friends in the night, as of late.”

“And they over you,” Valjean says, soft.

“I know.” Enjolras looks down again, eyes roving over his bedcovers, the familiar feeling of anxiety pricking at his stomach. “You are an early riser, monsieur,” he says, a diversion, to crush the hated feeling.

“I do not require much sleep,” Valjean says, sitting down in the armchair. “A habit learned in…” he stops abruptly, obviously surprised at himself, and does not continue.

Enjolras suspects he was about to say ‘in the galleys’ but he doesn’t press, speaking instead to fill the space so Valjean doesn’t feel awkward.

“I find I’m quite the same. Usually, that is. I suppose I’ve been sleeping quite a bit more than usual.”

“The question is, I suppose, whether you sleep during those hours, or whether you lie awake and fret?” Valjean supposes perceptively. It is almost rhetoric, phrased lightly, giving Enjolras the space to retreat from it, or take the opportunity to vent.

“I do not like this. I do not like this feeling. I do not like acting this way. I do not like their worry for me.” Enjolras says, releasing the anxiety into the words. “They worry, but I want them to focus on themselves, they’ve got so much to offer, so much to do. Combeferre is a pure genius, a talented, compassionate doctor, Courfeyrac is so talented with people, so empathetic to their struggles, so quick-witted, Feuilly is incredibly driven, so intelligent quick to learn, Grantaire has strength he knows not, is overcoming so much right now, and he’s a talented artist, I saw his paintings once, when Bossuet took one from his apartment, saw sketches he made quickly in the Musain, and Marius has his marriage to your wonderful Cosette to think of, his own legal career.”

 “And you think you do not have anything to offer?” Valjean asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I know that I do,” Enjolras says. “But…I must figure out how, given the circumstances. I am…I am supposed to be dead, after all. I do not want my friends worrying so much over me that they neglect their own paths, their own potential. I…I will figure out what to do with myself.”

Valjean’s concerned expression causes images of Jehan from his dream in the jail to rain down in his brain, mixed with his friend’s words:

_You have to let our friends put you back together. Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius, Gavroche, Monsieur Valjean, Madmoiselle Cosette. And Combeferre and Courfeyrac in particular, they know you so well, Enjolras. Just let them help._

Not shattered.

Cracked.

“I believe I can help with that,” Valjean says, squeezing Enjolras’ hand briefly but with the utmost warmth. “But first we must get you fully healed. You will always have a place here, Enjolras. All of you will. We can create something new.”

Enjolras nods, returning the squeeze, swallowing the growing emotion burning up his throat. He looks away, gathering himself, eyes settling once more on the still sleeping form of Courfeyrac.

 “This one sleeps rather like the dead,” he says. “It once took our friend Bahorel shouting directly into his ear to rouse him after a particularly raucous night in Paris.”

“Don’t remind me,” Courfeyrac grumbles, popping one eye open and surprising both Valjean and Enjolras, but Enjolras doesn’t miss the fond smile sliding slowly onto Valjean’s lips at the stories of their hijinks.

“I thought I’d gone deaf for certain,” Courfeyrac complains, sitting up. “Bahorel laughed for a week at how high I jumped.”

“It was admittedly amusing,” Enjolras answers, and he cannot help but feel a bubble of bittersweet joy burgeoning in his chest. He looks back up at Valjean, who watches them contentedly. “I hear Cosette has already begun planning for the wedding and the proposal was just yesterday?” Enjolras asks, watching Valjean’s eyes light up at the mention of his daughter.

“Cosette is beside herself with excitement,” Valjean admits. “It pleases me to see her so happy.”

“I’ve never seen Marius as ecstatic as he was when they returned yesterday,” Courfeyrac says. “In fact, I don’t think I ever saw him ecstatic until he met Cosette. I do believe Cosette brings out his true spirit, which is a testament to her wonderful character. Speaking of wonderful character, where is Combeferre? He’d usually be up fussing over you already, Enjolras, and doing a magnificent impression of our beloved Joly.”

“I’m relieved he’s sleeping,” Enjolras says, frowning slightly. “He’s been exhausted as of late, between my own ill health and Grantaire in the deepest stages of withdrawal, he’s scarcely slept. When hr does come up I want to encourage him to get more rest.”

“I agree,” Valjean says with a nod. “He looked nearly faint yesterday.”

“Oh yes, let us team up against Combeferre and force him into bed,” Courfeyrac says delightedly. “The irritated look on his face is worth all his protest, it’s very nearly as good as yours, Enjolras.”

“Oh, quiet,” Enjolras says, but his annoyed tone is overcome almost entirely by fondness.

“I tease, but it’s true,” Courfeyrac says, growing serious. “The man needs rest. What a role reversal you’ve discovered, Enjolras. Usually this goes the other way around.”

Enjolras is about to respond with a quip of his own, but they’re interrupted by just the man they happen to be discussing.

“Well there you are,” Combeferre says, looking at Enjolras. “I thought you might be here when you weren’t in your room. I was worried.”

“No need for that, my friend,” Courfeyrac says. “I took excellent care of the patient. You worry far too much.”

“Well,” Combeferre says dryly, but it’s obvious he’s amused. “Someone must make up for your lack of said activity.”

“You wound me,” Courfeyrac says, dramatically placing his hand over his heart. “But that aside, we were just speaking about you.”

“You were.”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers. “We were just all agreeing that you need to get some more rest. I know for a fact you didn’t go to bed until past two, because I heard you talking with Feuilly in the hallway, and it is just now a bit past seven.”

Enjolras doesn’t miss Combeferre’s pointed look that he too, only got somewhere around five hours of uninterrupted sleep, but he doesn’t touch on it aloud.

“You’ve done a marvelous job,” Valjean says. “Both of your patients are on the road to recovery. Now it is time for the doctor to take a little of his own advice, and get some rest, my boy.”

“Thank you, sir. They are much improved, but I do still indulge in my worrying.” But he’s touched by the older man’s concern. “So, Enjolras, if you would allow me to check you over, ascertain your progress, then you may lecture me further, I promise.”

 At this, Valjean rises.

“Well, I shall leave you all to it, then,” he says. “And go see about breakfast.”

With that he’s gone, leaving the three friends alone, and Enjolras staring Combeferre down.

“Whatever are you looking at me like that for, Enjolras?” Combeferre questions.

“Are you _really_ going to rest?”

“Are you _really_ going to let me look you over and give you my prognosis?”

Combeferre looks over at Coufeyrac, raising a single eyebrow. “Are you in on this ploy to force me to bed?”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac says, a teasing lilt to his voice, but there’s worry there also. “I take any opportunity to boss you about, Combeferre. “My allegiance is dedicated to whosoever is most likely to illicit that marvelously irritated expression at being made to follow your own advice.”

“Let me put it this way for you,” Enjolras says. “If you become ill yourself because of exhaustion, you will not be able to look after Grantaire or myself as you wish to.”

“A play on words I have spoken to you in the past,” Combeferre says, but a smile quirks at the edge of his lips. “I shall look you over and then retire for a few more hours. Does that suit you two schemers?”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers, watching Courfeyrac nod his assent beside him.

“Ah ha! Victory!” he declares gleefully.

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Yes well, all the bandages and things are in your room, Enjolras, so let’s get you back there,” Combeferre says.

Enjolras obliges, and after a few moments, with the assistance of Combeferre and his cane, he’s back in his own bed, already missing Courfeyrac’s ever comforting presence, his bed cold and unwelcoming after their combined heat.

He’s found he tends towards shyness when it comes to his wounds feels emotionally exposed as it is, and being physically exposed as Combeferre checks him over only emphasizes that.

He looks down at his leg as Combeferre unwraps the bandage, which he hasn’t done since the incident with Javert, and he’s almost surprised at how it looks. The gauze comes away almost dry, the wound, which is so clearly a bullet hole, round and deep and dark red still, thin purple veins snaking into it, but it is nearly closed. Combeferre hums approvingly, feeling the surrounding skin for any indication of heat, pressing the tips of his fingers to its edges to check for any swelling before tightly redressing it and wrapping the bandage around his thigh tightly. Enjolras looks down at his legs, bent at the knee in front of him; the right, the wounded leg, is just noticeably thinner from lack of use in the month since he’d been shot. His shoulder, however, when he twists to look down at it, has closed well, and there is a dark pink patch of skin at the end of his collar bone, with a matching, slightly larger mark on the back of shoulder where the bullet had exited. Moving his left arm is painful, but he is rapidly regaining dexterity in his hand, despite the fresh new cut which has only just properly scabbed over.

Combeferre makes quick work of changing the bandages on his shoulder, leg, and hand, visible relief passing across his face when he sees no sign of infection.

“Shoulder wound’s healing well,” Combeferre remarks. “Leg’s doing better, though it’s going to take a good deal longer to heal, the muscle damage...” He trails off, then brightens. But it’s progressing. I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you into the Laudanum?”

Enjolras winces inwardly; he hears the pang of desperation in Combeferre’s voice, but memories of scarcely being able to stand, of the world appearing blurry and black before him, utterly unable to focus, and the sound of his own scream ringing in his ears, stops him from agreeing.

“I cannot, Combeferre,” Enjolras says, gentle as Combeferre himself. “I’m so sorry. I just…I cannot at present. I’m sorry, I know you worry. I hate making your worry further.

”I know you do,” Combeferre says. “You do not need to apologize every time I mention it.”

“I’m sor…” Enjolras begins, stopping himself with an embarrassed chuckle. “I just…you have been so burdened lately, and I have not been able to take my own share, have not been able to stand in my place.”

“Hush,” Combeferre replies, affectionate. “If our places were switched you would be doing the same as I am now. You are not a burden, Enjolras. And I wish you would not think such a thing.”

“Even when I am stubborn about the Laudanum?”

“Even then,” Combeferre assures him, sitting beside him on the bed now and feeling Enjolras’ forehead with the back of his palm. “I simply do not like seeing you in pain, and you are going to be in pain for a time, and as your doctor and as your friend, I would recommend it, but I will not force you into something unless it means saving you from something life-threatening.” He pauses, frowning slightly, but after a moment it curves up into a smile. “I am quite pleased to say that you are finally completely rid of your fever, Enjolras. And your breathing has returned to normal as well.”

“Really?” Enjolras questions. “Well I suppose that is good news.”

“It’s fantastic news,” Combeferre says, breaking out into a full grin now. “Especially considering that you’ve had a fever of some degree for a bit more than a month now. “You should start feeling better soon, much less exhausted, I should hope. Don’t misunderstand me, you still have a reasonably long convalescence ahead of you; we must not take things too fast, your body has been through hell and has to regain strength. But now that the fever’s gone we can start focusing on rehabilitating your leg and your shoulder, using the muscles again as they heal. There are exercises I can help you do, that kind of thing. Get you up and about more. In fact getting you out of bed will be what’s best.”

Enjolras hesitates for a moment before replying; while he’s relieved and bolstered by the news that he’s beginning to physically heal, it’s also been his reasoning for not getting out of bed a great deal since his return from the Javert ordeal. He feels so lost, so…he balks at the word depressed, because he does not want to think on that, does not want to admit it…but it’s at least partially true, he thinks. He senses his true soul hiding somewhere in the depths of his being, beneath the layers of trauma and grief and anger, but he as of yet, he cannot find a way to retrieve himself.

And he feels terrible for it, hates seeing the worry marring his friends’ faces, hates watching them put themselves on hold for him.

“How about you go get that rest you promised me?” Enjolras says, looking back at Combeferre with a tight smile. “Then perhaps when you awake we can sit in the drawing room together.”

Enjolras watches Combeferre’s face fall slightly at his lack of enthusiasm, a lack to which Combeferre is certainly not accustomed, a lack to which Enjolras himself is not accustomed. He recalls another time he’d been injured, as he knows Combeferre often does, when it had been all he and Joly could do to keep him in his bed, and now…

He’s pushing Combeferre away, and yet all he wants is Combeferre by his side right now.

The darkest voice inside the blackest recesses of his mind tell him he is not good for his friends unless he is utterly himself, and yet another voice, a voice that sounds remarkably like Prouvaire’s, tells him he needs to let them into his soul, show them the pain and let them help him, which will in turn help them all.

“I did promise you,” Combeferre says, trying to smile again. “I shall return in a few hours then? And we will go downstairs together?”

“I shall try my best,” Enjolras promises, feeling a rush of uncontrollable emotion sweep over him. “Please rest, Combeferre.”

“I will,” Combeferre says, brushing a hand across Enjolras’ before turning to go and closing the door behind him.

Enjolras watches the door close imagining Combeferre walking away, wanting to call out, to stop him, wanting to get up and go after him, to apologise again, to ask him to fix it, to make the crushing melancholy go away. But for the first time, Combeferre can’t make this better. He wraps his arms around his legs, and hugs them tightly, despite the pain it causes in leg and shoulder both.

And then, Enjolras cannot help it, cannot resist any longer: the tears escape his eyes and flood over onto his cheeks. He places his hand over his mouth, muffling the sound he makes and shutting his eyes, a wave of the achingly familiar sadness crashing over him with all its ferocity, no matter how he tries battling against the sensation.

On the other side of the door, Combeferre listens, his own heart twisting in time with Enjolras’.

* * *

Grantaire supposes it must be nearing eleven when he finally awakes properly, given how high the sun sits outside his window.

He also knows he’s hungry; his stomach growling is a good enough indicator of that, and as it’s the first time he’s felt truly hungry since this withdrawal process started, he dresses, shunning his jacket and cravat for just the shirt, trousers, and waistcoat, since he doesn’t plan on leaving the house today. He’s just nearing the stairs when he hears Feuilly and Gavroche’s voices floating outward from Enjolras’ room, and stops, listening.

“…should really look into writing again, Feuilly,” Enjolras says. “Once we can ascertain the political situation in this area, once we all feel a bit safer here. Your marvelous thoughts manifest themselves so well on paper. Perhaps there’s even a newspaper or something you might like to work for.”

“I will admit,” Feuilly says, sounding slightly sheepish. “I have gone into Avignon a few times to perhaps scope out work. I know…I know Valjean will claim it isn’t necessary, that all of you will, but I am so used to working, to earning my own keep. But there will be something, I’m sure, and I think I might wait on the pamphlet writing until you are well Enjolras, I always did love going over my work with you.”

“Oh, yes, I did as well,” Enjolras says, but it’s a quieter tone than Grantaire is used to, so much less sure, much less firm, and the difference sends shivers down his spine. He detests the past tense they both use, and growls a little as Enjolras continues. “But you are completely capable without me Feuilly, for certain.”

“Come downstairs with us, Enjolras?” Gavroche pipes up. “I’ve picked out more books since I showed you yesterday! For when you start teaching me reading.”

Grantaire hears Enjolras’ voice lift ever so much at the mention of teaching Gavroche to read, but it’s still not normal, still not _Enjolras_.

“I promised Combeferre I’d go down with him after his rest,” Enjolras replies, and at this, Grantaire steps into the doorframe, making his presence known. He’s seen Enjolras only briefly since their talk in Grantaire’s room two nights ago, a moment Grantaire still has trouble believing.

Truth be told, it frightened him.

  _Just Enjolras. I'm no god, only a mortal as human as you are._

Oh, but that’s what he fears most, Enjolras’ mortality. The mortality of his body, the mortality of his mind, but most of all right now, the mortality of his spirit.

_Do not be like me, Enjolras, do not. Is that why you're here? To tell me that you have given up? That the darkness I saw in the horrific recesses of my mind has really overcome you?_

_No. The recesses of your mind, those hallucinations, they are not reality. You have spent many an hour at my bedside while I have been ill, and I wish to return the favor. You are my friend, Grantaire, a friend undergoing a hardship I have long wished to see you overcome. It reassures and comforts me to be by your side, and I'd hoped to bolster your efforts."_

How he wants to believe Enjolras’ words, his reassurance that he hasn’t gone down Grantaire’s own path now after all he’s experienced, he _desperately_ wants to believe it.

But why had Enjolras come to him? To check on him, yes, that had been clear, but the emotional intimacy between them unsettled Grantaire, because even if Enjolras hadn’t shared words concerning his own pain, he’d shared it with his movements, his looks, his body language, his touch.

Enjolras is focusing on everything but himself, and that, Grantaire knows from personal experience, is the path paved to hell. Not that it’s abnormal for Enjolras to neglect his own needs for the sake of others, for the sake of the cause, but this is different; Enjolras is at least sensible about it normally, and this is almost manic. And for his own sake, for all their sakes, he needs to face everything he’s been through.

The trouble is, Grantaire knows Enjolras won’t see it that way.

“I’m headed down myself,” Grantaire says, and the other three turn to look at him. “I’m starved, and I can smell Touissant’s cooking from all the way up here.” He locks eyes with Enjolras, who only holds it for a mere second before breaking away, a tell-tale sign to Grantaire that he’s dodging going downstairs, so he presses the issue. “You’re sure you won’t come, Enjolras? I’m sure Combeferre won’t mind you going without him. Man should sleep for a week, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You must be feeling better if you’re hungry,” Enjolras remarks, relief in his voice. “I’m pleased to hear that. But I’m all right,” Enjolras continues, the barest hint of defensiveness in his tone. “The three of you go, enjoy what I’m sure must be something delicious, if the smell is any indication. I’ll be down after a while.”

There’s a sense of finality in his tone that Grantaire knows Feuilly at least, doesn’t miss.

“Well we shall see you in a bit then,” Feuilly says, and Grantaire sees Enjolras soften again. “I’ll make sure Gavroche here doesn’t eat every morsel in the house.”

“Hey!” Gavroche exclaims, offended. “I don’t eat everything!”

“Near enough to it,” Grantaire says, stuffing his still slightly shaking hands into his pockets. “You’d think you had two stomachs inside you instead of one.”

They bid Enjolras farewell, and as Grantaire watches Feuilly’s face contort with concern, he promises himself he will speak with Combeferre later.

He will not let Enjolras slip through the cracks.

* * *

As promised, around an hour later Combeferre comes for Enjolras, pleased to find him dressed, sitting atop his made bed, and Enjolras admits, to distract himself from the pain that stairs inevitably cause, that he’s hungry; the scent of Toussaint’s cooking tempting enough to illicit even his habitually lax appetitie.

Toussaint herself makes much of Enjolras, and piles a plate high with food for him. Enjolras eyes it, but thanks her regardless, somewhat surprised at her blush and accompanying giggle.

The others are elsewhere, having long since finished with lunch, so it is just Combeferre and himself, working their way through their heaped plates.

“I’m going to retrieve the book I left in the drawing room to show you,” Combeferre says, getting up from his chair. “Do you mind? I’ll just be gone a moment.”

“Certainly not,” Enjolras says, with a reassuring wave of his hand. “I’ll be fine here. Still not quite finished, besides.” Combeferre smiles, looking down at his plate, because Enjolras has made a real effort to plough through, and seems determined to continue.

Except as it turns out, Combeferre isn’t gone for just a moment.

He’s gone for several.

Twenty minutes pass, and much bewildered, Enjolras, rises slowly from his chair, leg aching and stiff. It’s not unusual for Combeferre to get caught up in a book, but he’d said he was bringing it back to talk over it with him, not sitting down in the drawing room to read. Enjolras limps awkwardly down the hallway toward the drawing room, two very familiar voices growing closer, the anxiety that seems his now constant companion gnawing sharply at his insides. He stands back so they don’t see him, but he hears them in perfect clarity.

“I appreciate your opinion on the matter, Grantaire. I have thought on your earlier words but…” Combeferre’s voice, soft and placating is cut off by Grantaire’s desperate and worried tone.

“He’s acting like a martyr, Combeferre,” Grantaire says. “Even if he’s not aware of it, that’s what he’s doing. Like he’s already dead or as if he thinks he deserves death. It’s dangerous.”

“Are you quite sure your own recent illness hasn’t made you unduly concerned. I don’t mean to suggest your concerns aren’t valid but your…hallucinations, the anxiety you yourself…” Combeferre tries.

“I know of what I speak, Combeferre. And I know what I see. He’s pulling away. It’s dangerous. He’s half manic in his focus on everything but himself.” Grantaire sounds half-afraid, but there is a trace of something in his voice Enjolras has heard none too often, and were the subject matter any other, he’d be glad to hear it; conviction.

“It’s only been a week since the entire experience with…in the jail,” Combeferre says, still calm, but Enjolras’ hears the apprehension in his voice as he once again avoids saying Javert’s name. “So much happened there. It is…it is Enjolras’ place to explain in time just what occurred, it is not mine. It has just been a little over five weeks since the barricade, and we are _all_ still dealing with that, will be for a good amount of time.” There’s a sigh, distinctly Combeferre’s and Enjolras can imagine him stepping forward to take Grantaire’s hands as he continues. “And besides all of that, he’s a fugitive now, he’s got to figure out an entirely new way of life. For a man who’s always been so driven, and so sure of his course…I am not surprised he is unsure how to go on.  He’s traumatized, Grantaire. He needs time and our support.”

Enjolras releases a shaky breath slowly through his nose; he and Combeferre have always been close, understood each other inherently, implicitly and irrevocably, of course Combeferre understands the inner working of Enjolras’ mind, even though if feels that Enjolras himself does not. But Grantaire’s voice comes again, quickly, and agitated.

“And how much time do you plan on giving him?” he questions. “How much time until he never recovers? You told me you wouldn’t let him slip through the cracks and he is doing just that. You are allowing it. You, the person who knows him best.”

In that moment, something in Enjolras snaps so loudly he’s certain he hears the echoing in his own brain. Feeling as though he’s vacating his own body, he steps forward.

“No,” Combeferre says, adamant. “He’s…”

He ceases speaking, turning as if he senses Enjolras’ presence, but Enjolras’ gaze looks past him immediately, focusing intensely on Grantaire. 

“A martyr. You believe I’m acting the martyr, then?” Enjolras asks, stepping further into the room. “If you think such a thing, you bring it to me directly. You do not blame Combeferre for my actions, he has done nothing wrong.” His words are sharp, precise, sentences clipped.

Grantaire merely looks at him, looking almost fearful for a moment before irritation flickers in his face.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre tries. “There’s no need to defend me, Grantaire was simply concerned over your well-being. We are all accidentally sharp sometimes without meaning to be.”

Enjolras makes to answer Combeferre, but he’s drawn back in by Grantaire’s response.

“I think you are acting as if perhaps you believe you deserve to be dead,” Grantaire says, voice low with pent up emotion. “Do you think that honors our friends? Do you think that’s what they’d wish of you now? We all miss them, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “It’s not just you. Their deaths don’t constitute yours. You’re not the only one who feels guilty for surviving when they died.”

“Is that what you think this is all about?” Enjolras says, voice dangerous with growing rage. There it is again, that uncontrollable anger welling up within him, the same anger from the jail; it’s anger he’s felt before, but it isn’t anger he can control. Yet now instead of directing itself at an enemy, a captor, it directs itself at a friend.

“I…” Grantaire stumbles for a second as if he regrets his words, but there’s a glint of a challenge he yet refuses to give up.

“You think I don’t notice the look in your eyes when you remember something amusing and look around for Bossuet only to remember he isn’t here? You think I don’t notice Combeferre turning his head to consult Joly on my health or yours, only to find an empty space?” Enjolras steps forward slowly, shaking and leaning heavily on his cane, eyes fixed on Grantaire. “You think I don’t notice the way Feuilly twirls his hat in his hands, remembering how Bahorel used to tease him and steal it away to make him smile after a long day at work? You think I don’t notice the heart-crushing melancholy in Courfeyrac’s eyes when Madame Bellard brings in fresh flowers, thinking of how much Jehan would appreciate the nature here?” There is a lump in his throat he can’t quell as he speaks of them, and his voice is a pained whisper as he continues. “You think I don’t see those things?”

“I know you see all of that,” Grantaire says, changing tactics. “And that’s precisely the problem. That’s all you see. You sit and stew, blaming and doubting yourself. Torturing yourself.”

Enjolras throws up his hands, half turning away in his frustration before his leg reminds him he cannot move so freely without support, grabbing for his cane before it falls to the floor.

“You are making little sense, just a moment ago you implied I was far too busy thinking of my own grief as opposed to anyone else’s,” Enjolras snaps, lip curling. “As ever you hide your true meaning so it is near impossible for the person on the other end of the conversation to understand you. But that way there’s no chance of revealing any sentiment, any feeling, any belief of any kind, I suppose.”

“You know full well that is not always the case,” Grantaire spits; he is often the first to attack himself, but to have Enjolras so efficiently cut straight through his defenses, defenses he tried so hard to take down these past weeks, of his own volition, and not, hurts too much “I have been laid bare before you, Enjolras. Do not act as if that hasn’t happened.”

“There is always a wall,” Enjolras insists. “Always and _forever_ a wall. I have beaten and pushed and hammered at it, but you pull me in and then push me away again, mock me in one breath and then say you believe in me in the next.”

“You hypocrite!” Grantaire says, shouting now. “You talk to me of walls and walls and deflection, yet here you are, talking about anyone and everything but _you_ , what’s really going on in _your_ head, Enjolras. About what _you’ve_ been through. You’re far too busy telling Combeferre he needs to take his final exam, telling Courfeyrac he should find a law firm, telling Feuilly he should start writing again, the list goes on, it’s as if you _want_ us to move on without you. You aren’t dead, and you aren’t meant to be. You’re running away.”

“I wish that I could!” Enjolras cries. “I wish that I could. I wish that I could run, that I could run until I feel my lungs burn, that I feel my legs burn for a reason other than this god forsaken pain? I wish I could have run when Javert was tracking us, I could have run and kept you all safe, avoided this entire debacle.” He is breathing hard, speaking fast, before stopping suddenly. He is grateful that Valjean, Cosette, Marius and Gavroche have gone into Avignon, so that they at least, do not have to hear this.

“But I cannot. I am trapped.”

He steps forward, into Grantaire’s personal space, making use of his height despite how he must lean on the cane. “Do you know what happened in that jail, do you know want to know?” He hisses, watching as if detatched from himself, Grantaire’s pupils dilate in fear of him, of his anger.

“I watched a woman die,” Enjolras says, voice soft, low and dangerous.

 Combeferre hovers nearby, eyes intent on the pair of them, but for now he sees fit to let it play out, likely because he knows that even his intervention is futile now, because these emotions can no longer be pent up.

“She bled out in my arms, asking for me to sing to her while she because the officers wouldn’t call a doctor in time,” Enjolras says, voice tremulous with emotion. “I felt her life slide away in my helpless hands because of a society that is set up to let people such as her fall by the wayside. I fought for that, Grantaire, and now I’m a fugitive with all my purpose ripped away, half-crippled, my remaining physical capabilities sent spiraling out of my control from drugs I didn’t want. Javert held a knife to my throat in front of all of you, I was covered in Isabelle’s blood out of my mind with pain and Laudanum, how do you damn well _think_ that feels?” he pauses to catch his breath, to fight the tears which threaten, silencing Grantaire with a hand when he goes to speak. 

“Were you the chief of the barricade? Did you make decisions you aren’t sure if you regret, decisions you had no choice but to make, decisions that saved or ended the lives of your closest friends? Your brothers in arms?” Would you rather me talk of that? What good will it do any of you? It would be selfish of me.”

“I would like to hear you talk about that, actually,” Grantaire says, stepping up closer. “And talking about it will do you good, which will inevitably do us all good. There’s room to be a little selfish, as you say, though you would likely not call it that if any of us came to you with our woes right now. Let us help. You have been traumatized, Enjolras.”

“I am well aware,” Enjolras says, biting. “If my nerves are any indication.”

“You _aren’t_ ,” Grantaire presses. “No matter how many times Combeferre has told you so, you have not accepted it, do not understand the gravity of the situation, of what these things have done to your mind.”

“I imagine you think there is no hope for me now, then, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, quieter now, bitter almost, and even to Enjolras’ own ears, he doesn’t sound like himself at all.

“There is not hope for much in this world,” Grantaire says, a strange pleading entering his tone now. “But it makes a permanent home in you somehow, and mine all bound up with it.”

Enjolras huffs, using his free hand to massage his temple furiously.

“You cannot place all of your hope, cannot place everything positive in your life within me!” he cries, holding back a scream of aggravation, desperate for Grantaire to see how wrong this is. ““I would not have it so, would not wish that on you,” Enjolras says, but there’s something softer there, something vulnerable in voice, less tight than before.  “As you have pointed out, I am a most fallible man. I _want_ to inspire hope in you, but Grantaire…”

“You think I would be this way if I had any other choice!” Grantaire says, metaphorical hackles rising, defenses springing up all around him. “You think I’d choose this, Enjolras?”

“It _is_ a choice!” Enjolras responds. “It’s _your_ life, Grantaire.”

“No!” Grantaire protests. “No. There are some choices but there are also things we cannot control, you know that as well as any man.”

“You say all of this to me and yet If reached out my hand you would not take it!” Enjolras says, screaming now. “ _Why_ , Grantaire, explain it to me. Please, just…”

“Because I don’t deserve it!” Grantaire says, cutting him off, shocked at his own words, green eyes widening as though he cannot believe what he just said. He goes on shakily. “I would do _nothing_ but fail. At every turn, every time. You trusted me to go to the Barriere du Maine, and I went. I was _there_ , Enjolras, but I couldn’t even complete that one damn task!”

Enjolras breathes hard, words sticking in his throat. From the corner of his eye he sees the horror on Combeferre’s face as Grantaire bares himself. When he speaks again, he must force the words forward phrase by phrase.

“You say you don’t deserve _what_ , exactly, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, lowering his voice, desperate, feeling the anxiety bubbling up in the pit of his stomach again, his words still spits of fire. “My respect? My esteem? You say that you will fail at every turn, and yet what is it that I have just done? Do you hold me in any less esteem now that I have failed as a chief, as a leader? Our friends died,” he feels a tear finally break free but dashes it away, ploughing on. “The barricade failed, and yet you all promise me that it has no bearing on my person, on who I am. But you will not apply any of what you speak to yourself, even after the past few weeks. You regress.”

Enjolras watches Grantaire squint at him, his expression unreadable, something dark and mysterious swirling in the depths of his hunter green eyes. Enjolras reaches up, with one shaking hand to press his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, a too late attempt to stem the tears pooling in his eyes, half a pace behind him, Combeferre shifts unsure whether to intervene

“You have not failed,” Grantaire says, his vulnerability disappearing once more beneath a mask of feigned, stony indifference. “You do not even know the _meaning_ of the word. The revolution failed, but revolutions fail all the time, France is well-acquainted with that. It doesn’t mean that you didn’t fight, that you didn’t stand for something. Do not take humanity’s failure as your own, Enjolras. I do not belong among your ranks, much as I wish I did. You are strong, I am weak. You are light and I am dark. Hope and despair. Harmony and discord. That’s who we are.  That’s just the way things _are_.”

“I would have you at my side,” Enjolras begins, exhaustion sapping his previous strength from his words, but he means them as surely as he means everything he says, feeling Combeferre steadying him as he falters, still quiet. He hears footsteps in the hallway, eyes flickering to Courfeyrac and Feuilly’s forms in the doorway to the drawing room. “Like Combeferre, like Courfeyrac, like Feuilly, like Marius, like all of our friends who are gone, I would not have you alone in the dark corner, and yet you refuse? You are my equal, Grantaire. A man the same as me, as any of our friends.” He speaks lowly, as if to a wounded creature, reaching for Grantaire.

Grantaire doesn’t reach back; he simply stares, disbelief etched into every crevice of his face as it hardens against his emotions, a flicker of terror cracking through the stone.

“You cannot put this burden upon me, upon yourself!” Enjolras says, voice cracking in his frustration. “I am a human being, Grantaire! You throw my flaws in my face and then yet refuse to look on me only as some deity from your beloved mythology! You are a better man than you think. Stop putting me in such a place that you cannot reach, or at least allow me to help you up! Let us journey with you!”

“I will _never_ be what you wish of me,” Grantaire says, stepping forward so that his face is inches from Enjolras’, voice laced with poison yet drenched in regret. “So you might as well give up that _ridiculous_ dream.”

“I have no wish for you to be anything but yourself. Only to see your own worth and stay off the path to self-destruction. I have seen a glimpse of the person underneath all of your layers, have seen that you are capable of standing for something, of standing for your friends. Please Grantaire, it is you who must give up your own poisonous view of yourself.”

Grantaire sneers, and gives a chilling, hollow laugh. “I am a worthless drunk who thinks the world a terrible, dark place, and humanity merely dregs. Ugly in all manners aside from my pathetic devotion to you, to our friends, aside from my pitiful belief that perhaps maybe, just maybe, the lot of you might be able to change something. I’m a cynic, a skeptic, incapable of standing for _anything_. Move on, Enjolras. Stop holding _me_ up so high.”

“Coward,” Enjolras hisses, eyes narrowing.

He cannot help himself; the word slips forth, yet he doesn’t regret it, but it comes tainted with the sickening feeling that later, outside of this temper, he might. He’s so angry that Grantaire would say such a thing, now, after everything that’s happened since the barricade, all the progress, the spark of belief, of courage that is still so particularly Grantaire’s own.

Grantaire steps back again as if struck.

And despite his own derisive attack on his own person, he is hurt, tone  harsh, grating and unforgiving as he whispers, “After all my struggles recently that is what you say to me?”

“You heard me,” Enjolras says. “You all but said it yourself. We’re done here.”

With that he turns to go, leaving Grantaire staring after him, breaths rising and falling in quick succession.

His anger is such that adrenaline overrides his senses, and he steps without placing his cane on the floor, without leaning on someone for support; a lightning bolt of pain electrocutes his leg, so badly his hand spasms and he drops his cane, and tumbles to the floor. Thankfully he lands on his good shoulder, but the pain from both injuries is so intense, radiatating through every bone, and joint and muscle he cannot move for a moment, and lies quite still, the room around him equally shocked and still.

Every eye is fixed on him when he does sit up, body screaming at the effort, and there is no possibility of moving further.

“Go to him!” Grantaire snarls, bringing all eyes to him. He waves his arm wildly, already looking apologetic for his tone of voice, a contradiction even still, tears evident in his eyes. “Go on! You’d follow him anywhere, wouldn’t you, the lot of you…”

Still Combeferre falters, torn between the two of them, but at Courfeyrac’s nod he is Enjolras’ side immediately as Courfeyrac himself reaches for Grantaire, who is muttering to himself under his breath, his hands twisting into his dark hair.

"We do have minds of our own, thank you, my friend,” Courfeyrac says firmly, still smiling ever so slightly at Grantaire. “We stand by Enjolras' side for a reason, as do you. Peace now, you need to sit, you still aren’t quite well.”

Grantaire obliges, eyes still locked on Enjolras sprawled on the floor, and Enjolras looks back, heart racing without pause as Combeferre taps his shoulder and Feuilly approaches.

“Up you get,” Combeferre says softly, looking conflicted over whether he should help Enjolras or see if it’s possible he can do it himself. “You can do it, Enjolras. I know you can. You know you can.”

Enjolras holds Combeferre’s eyes as he presses himself against the wall, comforted by his presence even as he trembles with fury, even as he worries that it will spill over and explode even further, spattering them with his rage. He pushes up hard on his cane; he makes it onto his feet, but not without releasing a shout of pain he cannot hold back, closing his mouth in rebellion against it, but the sound nevertheless echoes through the room. His legs shake beneath him, and it’s then that Feuilly and Combeferre come on either side, holding him steady.

The silence between the five of them pounds agonizingly in Enjolras’ ears, and for a moment he falters as the world spins around him, the ground nearly coming up to meet him again if it weren’t for the two friends holding him up, and once again he curses his injuries, curses the physical weakness they cause.

“Easy,” Combeferre says kindly, grasping tighter. “Easy, let’s get you upstairs. You need to lie down. Right now.”

Enjolras nods, knowing better than to argue with that specific tone in Combeferre’s voice, the tone that is both resolute and soaked in disquiet, the nearest sound to frantic Combeferre ever achieves save the very rare occasion.

“Grantaire, please lie down on that sofa there,” Combeferre instructs, looking back as he and Feuilly direct Enjolras toward the stairs. “Courfeyrac, stay with him please. I’ll be back in few minutes.”

Enjolras falls silent as Combeferre and Feuilly help him up the stairs, pain striking its claws at his leg with every step, his heart racing with adrenaline, breathing in through his nose in an attempt to quell his anger, his frustration, to push down the ever-threatening panic.

He is infuriated with Grantaire, so infuriated that his face flushes red and his hands shake not just with pain but with anger, with hot, gushing wrath.

But part of him also wants to turn back around. A large part of him.

Grantaire is a dichotomy. Even now he is right and wrong in one breath.

He cannot, however, as Combeferre and Feuilly steer him into his room, his legs wobbling beneath him as he half collapses onto his bed. Guilt creeps into his veins as he looks up at Combeferre and Feuilly, seeing the very obvious trepidation on their faces, the imminent concern.

He’s frightened them, he’s certain, frightened them with his temper.

But then Combeferre steps forward, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he usually does. Feuilly follows, sitting down in the armchair.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras breathes, running a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry, my anger, I…”

“We will talk in bit,” Combeferre reassures him, his voice coating Enjolras in a familiar security, emphasized by Feuilly’s hand on his knee, which trembles still. “You and Grantaire are both in one piece, disagreements occur, particularly in this climate, where both of you are in ill health and emotionally spent. But rest for a few minutes while I go and check on Grantaire, and then I will be back, and we will talk. Feuilly can sit with you for a bit, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Feuilly says, understanding. “I will remain right here.”

Enjolras wishes he could respond, wishes he could simply take charge as is his habit, his role, his place.

But he finds he can only nod.

 


	29. Revelations, Understandings, and Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello all!! Just as a note, Enjolras’ mother will be re-introduced in this chapter, and his father and grandmother introduced, so I wanted to remind everyone of their names, to prevent confusion: Flora is Enjolras’ mother, Aubry his father, and Violet his maternal grandmother. In this, Enjolras’ first name is René.
> 
> Enjoy!!

Combeferre doesn’t return immediately, which Enjolras assumes means he’s had to tend to Grantaire in some way, perhaps he’s in counsel with Courfeyrac, or otherwise he’s giving Enjolras time to sort out his thoughts before he returns. Regardless, Enjolras is grateful for his bed; his leg twists and wrenches with pain, a throbbing ache in his shoulder. He presses his fingers into the skin around his leg, trying to relieve some of the pain and avoid damaging the still healing bullet wound. Feuilly sits beside him on the bed, eyes following Enjolras’ movements.

“What are you thinking?” he asks softly, folding his hands atop the blankets and looking directly at Enjolras, hazel eyes illuminated with compassion.

“I’m not sure,” Enjolras says, looking up at him, hands still pressed to his leg. “I am sorry for letting my anger get the best of me, and yet I am still angry. I have not been able to control my temper recently have not been able to channel it into something productive because I have no outlet, no speeches to give, no pamphlets to write. My temper has been hanging by a thread and Grantaire just…” he trails off, removing one hand from his leg and gesturing uselessly in the air. “Normally I feel righteous anger at the wrongs committed every day in this society we want so badly to change, I don’t normally simply feel angry at…I don’t even truly know.”

“We have all been through so much,” Feuilly says, and Enjolras sees the ghosts in his eyes he saw several weeks ago in Valjean’s home when they spoke of death. “And you and Grantaire even more than the rest, what with Grantaire’s withdrawal and you, well, you’ve been through hell, Enjolras. It doesn’t surprise me some of the emotions finally exploded a bit. It will all be fine soon, I expect. You and Grantaire will talk it through.”

“You think he will wish to speak to me?” Enjolras asks softly, squeezing his leg harder, unable to hide it any longer.

“I know he will, Grantaire is not capable of staying angry for long, especially not with you,” Feuilly says, frowning at Enjolras’ movements. “Though even if he is stubborn, you are more so, and too determined by far for him to refuse. I might not have heard the entire disagreement, but as these things go, hurtful things are said on either end, there’s a mixture of right and wrong with all parties involved. And if there was not so much feeling between you, I suspect it wouldn’t have been such a scene.”

Enjolras nods, shifting uncomfortably on the bed, trying to find a position which is not so painful. “You are right of course, as usual. Though we have never fought to this degree, Grantaire has always possessed the talent to spark my frustration, and yet still my certain affection. I never fully understood his regard for me just as I never understood Grantaire himself, though I struggled to do so, I _wanted_ to do so. He did not fight for our cause yet he made his place among us, earned our trust. He is, I think, an enigma of a man.”

Feuilly is about to respond, but he’s cut off by an audible gasp from Enjolras, who swallows back the sound to no avail as he feels an invisible hot poker prod at his leg.

“You are in more pain than I even suspected,” Feuilly says, edging carefully forward on the bed, bracing Enjolras with a firm hand on his arm, eyes mired with concern as Enjolras’ squeeze tightly shut.

“It will pass,” Enjolras says, but he doesn’t quite believe his own words. “My fall made it hurt worse than usual; I find I’m always embarrassing myself since these injuries occurred.”

“I’d hardly call it embarrassing, and hardly always. You’re not usually given to hyperbole, Enjolras,” Feuilly offers kindly, turning to regard him.

Enjolras opens his eyes, jaw set stiffly as he unclenches his hands from his leg, watching Feuilly in return.

“You still refuse to take any Laudanum?” Feuilly asks, the kind words cutting through him as Javert’s knife had threatened to do, because he wants to find a way to take the foul medication without the memories submerging him in their grip, wants to find a way to ease the worries of his friends, but he doesn’t know how.

“I can’t, Feuilly. I don’t want it…I don’t want to feel…” he stops, looking at his fingers instead of Feuilly. “I can handle the pain. I can. It just takes…time.”

Time, Enjolras considers. The word of the moment.

“I know,” Feuilly replies. “I know you _can_. But that doesn’t mean you _should_ or have to.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, eyes downcast as he shakes his head, almost to himself. He would take the Laudanum to ease Feuilly’s worry if he could, but he can’t, he cannot feel like that again, so helpless to rescue himself, to protect his friends, his entire body sluggish with drugs, sweat beading at his forehead, his heart beating slowly, breaths shallow.

“Did I ever tell you how my father died?”

Enjolras looks up sharply, not expecting the question Feuilly poses.

“In a robbery, I recall?” he asks, remembering a late night in the Corinthe, a long walk through the streets of Paris under the barely visible stars, Feuilly’s hesitant voice slicing through the quiet of the Parisian evening, the city sleeping all around them as Enjolras listened to him reveal another layer of himself.

Feuilly nods. “Yes. But he didn’t die straight away. He was stabbed trying to defend our house. We called for a doctor straight away and for a little while, it seemed like he might survive. The knife missed his internal organs, or so we thought, and the bleeding stopped once the doctor stitched him up. All of that I think I told you. But I don’t think I ever told you about the pain he experienced. We couldn’t afford Laudanum, we could barely afford to pay the doctor’s fee and we’d lost what few valuables we had in the robbery. I’ve never seen such pain.” Feuilly says, slow and steady to control his emotions. It happened many years ago, he’d been a child, but it’s still a wound and one that will never quite heal, now joined by four new, fresh ones. Feuilly fixes his eyes on the night stand, and Enjolras sees him struggling to remain in the present, sees the past swirling in his eyes.

Enjolras reaches over to take one of Feuilly’s hands. Feuilly smiles as the gesture, watching the grief replace pain on Enjolras’ face and he knows he’s thinking of their deceased friends too and touched, as he always has been, by Feuilly’s story. It is one of many parts of Enjolras which draws Feuilly to him, such empathy in a rich young boy who could scarcely imagine the situations which befall his fellow man, could have easily lived the comfortable life the current regime offered him, but instead went the complete opposite route, learning about the plagues of those who suffered, talking to and learning from them, fighting for them and with them, reading the great philosophers and politicians and expanding his mind. He is compassion embodied in a single man.

With a nod and squeeze of the hand from Enjolras, encouragement to continue, Feuilly takes a breath and does so. “He was in agony, for days and nights before he finally died. He could barely sleep or eat or speak. I was so young…I was a child. I didn’t understand, and I wanted to help him, I wanted to take that pain away. I knew there were drugs that could do that, and I knew we couldn’t afford them. But I didn’t, couldn’t, understand how that was fair. It _isn’t_ fair, and that’s why we all fought, why we will still fight, isn’t it? I think of my father when I see you struggle, when I see you in so much pain.”

 Pain of a different kind mixed with a marked guilt storm onto Enjolras’ features. Feuilly meets his eyes, holding his gaze, silently pleading with Enjolras to heed him, somehow.

“I don’t tell you this to hurt you, Enjolras, or to instill some sort of guilt in you. Far from it. I couldn’t help my father and society wouldn’t. You have the access to Laudanum, but even more than that, I can hopefully convince you to take it so that you can heal faster,” he says, and Enjolras closes his eyes, feeling an emotion so potent, so powerful overcome him that he’s not sure it won’t burst forth from his body somehow.

With the hand Enjolras doesn’t hold Feuilly tucks the lock of hair which has escaped the confines of its tie back behind Enjolras’ ear. Feuilly isn’t as physically affectionate as some of the other Amis are; he is occasionally tactile, has grown more so as he felt more comfortable around their group of friends, communicating with a quick hand clasped to a forearm, to a shoulder, an affectionate ruffle of the hair; strong, sure and definite moments of physicality from a reserved, but confident man. This tender caress, as Feuilly’s fingers linger for a moment on Enjolras’ chin, until he opens his eyes again and they hold each other’s gaze once more, is his way of begging Enjolras to listen. Enjolras has always opened his ears and his mind to the ideas of others, particularly since he found all of these wonderful friends, who have expanded his thinking and his love for their cause in ways he never knew possible at seventeen when he moved to Paris, on fire with passion and knowledge of revolutionaries past.

“I can only guess what Laudanum overdose feels like,” Feuilly says. “And how hard that loss of control was for you, how hard it was to feel what I’m sure was utterly hopeless. But you, Enjolras, you search for the good in everything, so I’m asking you to search for the good in using this medication. It is like a weapon; in the wrong hands it can cause unspeakable damage, but Combeferre’s are the right hands, good and sure and true. He won’t let you fall under its spell, I promise you. You trust him in all things, please, please, trust him in this. Please, take the Laudanum.”

Enjolras eyes are wide, clear, cerulean blue and torn with indecision. Feuilly holds his gaze, his eyes unblinking and resolute until Enjolras’ close again, and he nods wearily. Enjolras knows better than anyone that he can be narrow in his focus sometimes, has worked quite hard to broaden himself, opening himself up to the wonderful ideas of his friends, he’s succeeded in that; now he sees that those principles should also apply to this situation, because he finds he cannot bear to worry his friends further, knows how much it hurt them to see him nearly die, to see him dragged away, and now to see him in pain like this.

He will face this fear as he has always done, and he will trust his friends now as he always has before. He feels distinctly that perhaps he’s regained a piece of himself.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Until I truly don’t need it.”

“Thank you. Thank you, my friend.” Feuilly says, seizing both of Enjolras hands now and squeezing them with all the feeling and relief he has.

“Thank _you_ ,” Enjolras replies, returning the gesture. “For knowing me so well and helping me see the reason in this.”

“See the reason in what?” Combeferre’s voice says as he comes in through the doorway.

Feuilly smiles at Enjolras, and rises up from the bed.

“I’ll leave the two of you to talk,” he says, looking toward Combeferre. “How is Grantaire?”

“Physically well,” Combeferre says, taking Feuilly’s place next to Enjolras on the bed. “A bit shaky, but that is nothing new as of late, a side effect of the withdrawal still, added to by emotion. But Courfeyrac is sitting with him. Thank you, Feuilly,” he says, voice warm with gratitude.

Feuilly nods one last time before closing the door behind him and leaving Enjolras and Combeferre alone.

“How’s your leg after that fall?” Combeferre asks, his voice oddly timorous.

“It hurts like the devil,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre starts a bit, surprised at his willingness to admit to his pain levels. “And if you could pour me the appropriate dose of Laudanum I would be most appreciative.”

“Laudanum?” Combeferre says, smiling just a hint. “You want to take the Laudanum?”

“Feuilly convinced me,” Enjolras replies, somewhat sheepish. “He is most persuasive, I’ve found. Is it possible to start with a smaller dose? I do not…”

“Want to be overcome,” Combeferre finishes for him. “Of course.”

Enjolras watches Combeferre pour the Laudanum, an amber waterfall of liquid into the clear glass. His fingers touch Combeferre’s as he hands him the medication, the security of the familiar touch washing out and fading the memories of the jail from vivid color to a sharp black and white, the memories of the knife, of his own legs falling out from under him, knee crashing hard to the ground. He takes a tentative first sip then swallows the rest as quickly as he can tolerate with the foul, burning taste.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, pass me that water please,” Enjolras says, grimacing, washing the taste from his mouth when Combeferre exchanges the medicine glass for one of water. “It is as vile as ever.”

“I am proud of you, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, sincere, taking the glass back. “I know how difficult that was, the memories and sensations it provoked.”

“You are proud even after my outburst?” Enjolras says, but he meets Combeferre’s eyes still.

“You think me angry with you?” Combeferre asks, incredulous. “No, you know me better than that. There have been an extreme amount of intense, volatile emotions in all of us as of late, and it’s no surprise. You and I sorted out our disagreement, did we not?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, blushing slightly. “Though I still scarcely believe we fought in such a way. We’ve debated, disagreed, but never like that.”

“We were both stubborn,” Combeferre says, ever diplomatic. “And we were both coming from a place of worry for each other: that was the root of the problem. Which, I believe, is the same for Grantaire and yourself.”

Enjolras nods in agreement. “My temper has been so very close to the surface recently, and Grantaire just…he has always bewildered me so, Combeferre. He pulls me in and pushes me away, beckons me forward and sends me away. Incites my ire and yet also my friendship. There’s a connection there, I know it, I just…”

“You are very direct and Grantaire often obscures his meaning,” Combeferre replies. “Partly a communication trouble, partly that Grantaire does not realize the potential in himself to the point of self-loathing, an ever present problem Joly often worried over, a problem which may very well have been exacerbated by the loss of Joly and Bossuet who were always very adept with Grantaire. A problem we have all worried over. Grantaire fears you will become him, fears you will lose yourself in your intense melancholy over all of this. I know you will rise again, but Grantaire doubts, and he has never doubted you before, and that frightens him beyond measure, I suspect.”

Enjolras nods again, resolved; Combeferre’s thoughts echo and reaffirm his own musings now that his anger has ebbed.

“I must go speak to him,” Enjolras says, shifting to get up. “I think the Laudanum has done enough work to make my way in finding him.”

“A moment,” Combeferre says, putting a hand over Enjolras’, worry prevalent in his eyes, and Enjolras finds he would do anything to clear that away. “Some of the things you mentioned during the argument, about yourself, about all of this, if you want to talk with me about it I am right here, right by your side.”

“I do,” Enjolras says, squeezing Combeferre’s hand with sincerity. “Finally, I think I can voice them now, I realize that I _need_ to voice them, need to look into myself, Grantaire wasn’t wrong about that. I only have a difficult time looking to my own problems when I want to make sure all of you are content, that your lives continue on, because all of you are my heart, you are the future we believe in.”

“We will figure it all out, my dear friend,” Combeferre promises, and Enjolras feels the contracting pain in his heart ease. “But the best thing we can do is take care of each other, and that includes you.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, a melancholy smile on his lips. “Yes, you’re right.” He sits in silence for a moment, his hand secure in Combeferre’s. “I think I will try and speak to Grantaire, see if we can reconcile, or I will not sleep.” He pauses, settling his feet on the floor. “My grandmother used to say never let the sun go down on anger and harsh words…” he smiles and catches Combeferre’s eye. “But we will speak further. I promise. And…thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Combeferre says with a final squeeze. “And be careful with your leg, mind.”

“I will,” Enjolras tells him, meaning it. “Can’t go tumbling down again.”

“No,” Combeferre says, smiling and shooing him out the door. “It doesn’t suit your usual grace.”

At this, Enjolras chuckles before heading out into the hallway in search of Grantaire.

* * *

Grantaire wants to drink.

Grantaire wants to drink until he can’t think, until he can’t feel, until nothing hurts and he dissolves into complete and utter oblivion. He’d shaken Courfeyrac off a few minutes earlier, insisting that he should go help Valjean, Marius, Cosette, and Gavroche bring in the packages from Avignon, no doubt containing items to do with the wedding, saying that he was fine, and no, he wasn’t craving alcohol. Courfeyrac had looked heartily unsure, but he also knew he could not control Grantaire’s actions.

“All will be well between you,” Courfeyrac had said, resting a friendly, affectionate hand on Grantaire’s arm. “Of that I am most certain because I know the two of you as well as I know myself. Perhaps better. Enjolras is as drawn to you as you to him, and as stubborn to boot. You will resolve this, just you wait.”  

Sadly but unsurprisingly, there is no absinthe in this aristocratic house’s alcohol cellar, but among the copious bottles of wine he locates a few bottles of brandy, seizing one from the rack and taking it back up the stairs, cradling it as gently as if it’s his first born child. His feet take him almost unconsciously toward the rather expansive library, knowing that at least right now, none of his friends will be occupying the space, despite how often he can find any one of their noses buried in a book.

He throws himself down in one of the leather armchairs, hands grasping the brandy bottle tightly, but he doesn’t yet open it up. He stares at it, guilt already seeping deep into his bones at betraying his friends, betraying himself, betraying the mental and physical anguish he’s already experienced. He hears Enjolras’ voice in his head, laced with anger, but even more potent, laced with solid disappointment.

_Coward._

He’s disappointed Enjolras again, disappointed him now in a way more powerful than ever before, because he’d _tried_. He’d shown conviction, shown, dare he say it, _belief_. He’d showcased his loyalty, a quality he’d always allowed forth even in his darkest moments, even more than before.

He’d tripped over his own self-loathing.

But still, Enjolras was so goddamned _stubborn_.

But Grantaire doesn’t have time to contemplate just how stubborn Enjolras is, because he hears footsteps approaching, footsteps that are a good deal slower than normal yet they are still footsteps he’d know anywhere. Despite their slowness, despite his inner turmoil, despite his injury and the cane, Enjolras’ gait still sounds firm, each step pierced with a surety Enjolras doesn’t seem to know he still possesses. Enjolras pauses in the doorway, gazing around at the books before his eyes land directly on Grantaire, the intensity of his gaze lighting through the darkness gathering in Grantaire’s soul.

“Come to tell me to put the bottle down, have you?” Grantaire asks.

“I thought I might find you here,” Enjolras remarks, ignoring the swipe and leaning against the doorframe, wincing but obviously trying to hide it. His eyes shade with a hint of disdain when he sees the brandy, mixed with an even larger amount of immense concern Grantaire doesn’t miss. “Hiding, quite literally, among the literary references you always cloak yourself in. And in the bottle you so recently forswore.”

It is a return to type for them, a sort of interaction they have not had since the barricade fell but it feels alien now, wrong and misshapen with all that has happened, this fight most recent of all.

“As you hide behind your rhetoric,” Grantaire snaps, knowing his argument is specious; the words Enjolras speaks make up every inch of him. “Are you pleased now?” he continues, harsh, biting sarcasm laced around every syllable even as he despises himself for it. “You very nearly got to die for your cause, were very nearly a martyr. Does it disappoint you that Valjean robbed you of the chance? Is that why you’re acting the fool?”

Enjolras stares at him, eyes narrowing slightly, but he shakes head, fixing his face into a neutral expression, but Grantaire catches on the melancholy in Enjolras’ eyes, trying to ignore it because he wants to be angry, wants to shout at Enjolras, wants to pound on his chest and scream at him for even daring to try and leave them all, to leave him.

“Nothing to say for yourself then?” Grantaire asks. “The great orator among us lost for words? Do you even _care_ about how terrified we were? How terrified we still _are_?”

“What in the blazes would you have had me _do_ , Grantaire? Do you not realize that it killed me, knowing how much hurt I inflicted on all of you?” he says, frustrated but keeping his voice low, shaking everywhere now, loose blonde hair framing his face like a drenched halo. “But the hurt was a better option than your deaths. You think Javert wouldn’t have arrested all of you? Wouldn’t have killed you in his madness if I hadn’t gone with him? Is that what you damn well _wanted_? It’s my job to protect all of you. To make sure as many of you as possible live on. We’ve lost _enough_.”

“For the cause?” Grantaire mocks, but there are frustrated tears in his eyes now, and he’s fighting them desperately. “Because that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Didn’t matter that we might lose you as long as it was good for the _cause_. You…I…”

“I did it for all of you!” Enjolras protests. “Because each of you is an individual piece of my heart, separate from the cause I still love so much, despite all of this. But I’m alive, I’m here now.”

“No you’re _not_ ,” Grantaire says emphasizing the last word. “You’re acting as if you deserve to be dead, you won’t even look at yourself, Enjolras.”

“I need time,” Enjolras says, voice cracked with vulnerability. “As much as I hate it, I need it. And there’s no need for the rest of you to wait to live your lives, it doesn’t make sense.” Enjolras sighs, closing his eyes briefly before looking back at Grantaire. “Here we are again, at this precipice. I didn’t come to _fight_ with you. Quite the opposite.”

There’s another sharp comment in Grantaire’s verbal reserves, but at the sound of the weariness in Enjolras’ tone, he relents.

“Sit,” Grantaire mumbles, rising and pulling a chair up next to his own. “You shouldn’t be standing on that leg after you fell earlier, I don’t want Combeferre coming after me; the man’s frightening when he’s angry.”

A smile flickers on Enjolras’ face, and he allows it as Grantaire helps him down into the chair, leaning his cane up against the edge.

“We were both right and wrong,” Enjolras say, soft but sure. “You’re right: I’m not paying enough attention to myself, and you’re also right in saying that I’m drenching myself in guilt, I’m…”

“It’s…” Grantaire starts.

Enjolras holds up a careful hand. “May I finish?”

Grantaire nods, feeling a sudden impulse to touch Enjolras, but refrains for fear of breaking this fragile moment between them, this tentative sharing of the intimate secrets of Enjolras’ soul.

“I am not myself and that frightens me,” Enjolras admits, eyes falling down to his wounded leg, and Grantaire’s own follow their path. “I have had fears and doubts as has any man, fleeting though they may have been. I have known my purpose for what seems like my entire life and now, as much as I planned, I find myself in a situation I never envisioned and I don’t…our friends…”

Enjolras breaks off, resting his head in his hands, fingers lacing through his hair. Grantaire panics, almost wanting to dash off for Combeferre, for Courfeyrac, for Feuilly, possibly even for Marius; he doesn’t know if he can do this, doesn’t know if he can be strong for Enjolras the way others can, not when Enjolras has always been _his_ strength.

_Try_ , a voice that sounds very much like Enjolras whispers.

Grantaire puts a hesitant hand on Enjolras’ uninjured shoulder and Enjolras jolts up, surprised, but doesn’t pull away, looking at Grantaire intently.

“I was...” Grantaire begins begrudgingly. “A bit harsh earlier. I don’t believe myself wrong, exactly, but my own fears, my own anxieties, got mixed up with the ones I have for you. I know…I know you didn’t have any choice but to turn yourself over to Javert, but you do have a choice now, Enjolras. You aren’t dead, and,” Grantaire swallows hard, pushing forth the bravery he feels in Enjolras’ presence, making himself say their friend’s names. “Joly, Bossuet, Prouvaire, Bahorel…they wouldn’t wish that on you, they wouldn’t blame you.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, voice ripe with emotion he’s quite obviously holding back. “I know they wouldn’t. But so many men are facing trial, so many comrades imprisoned, and I circumvented that fate. Here I am, free. It feels _wrong_.”

“You’re a fugitive,” Grantaire says, hating how the words taste on his tongue, hating seeing how they slap Enjolras in the face. “That’s not exactly an easy fate. You need to stop punishing yourself for imagined wrongs. This way you can continue fighting on. I know you; you’ll find a way.”

“Anxiety plagues me and I feel so…crushed,” Enjolras says, searching Grantaire’s face as if it might hold the answers he seeks. “I feel my spirit within me and yet it eludes my reach. I want to reach it, but I feel as if I keep getting knocked back down by some sort of invisible force. I feel panicked if one of you is not near me, and yet I push all of you away in the same movement.”

“You are right when you say you need time,” Grantaire says. “And that is where I was wrong, and I should not have snapped at Combeferre. But you must look inside yourself, you _must_. I understand that it is your nature to think of others before yourself, but Enjolras you have to heed me. We can all take care of ourselves while you recover, and I’m not just speaking of physical recovery. We all need you, it’s true, but you need us as well, let us hold you up for a while. Or at least let the others…I am not altogether sure I’m good for much. You will never be yourself again if you don’t do this, you cannot be there for us as you are used to being, cannot be the leader I know you are until you confront this. Fully.”

Enjolras nods at him, and somehow in that moment, Enjolras looks infinitely more human than Grantaire has ever seen him and yet still so ethereally beautiful it steals the very breath from his lungs.

Grantaire’s chest aches with love for him, love for the man Enjolras is, a man who while still so wonderfully human, stands taller, brighter, more hopeful and determined than any mortal he’s ever come across, loves him for his flaws and his virtues both.

Silence reigns for a few moments until Enjolras speaks again.

“You are good for plenty,” Enjolras whispers. “It’s why you sometimes frustrate me so, why we argue and move in circles. Because I see your potential, and you refuse to do so. You placed yourself among us, lived in our circles, and yet I could not find a way to make you believe in anything, least of all yourself.”

“I believe in _you_ ,” Grantaire says, almost in reflex. His breath catches in his chest, but now, he supposes, is not the time to hold back. They are on the edge of something. “You are _exceptional_ , you are utterly unprecedented. I would follow you into the dark, because somehow you would light the way even if you did not know what lay ahead.” He sighs heavily, continuing quietly. “I do not expect you to understand.”

This time, Enjolras initiates the touch; he takes Grantaire’s hand in his own, interlacing their fingers as he often does with the ever tactile Courfeyrac. His touch is fearless, and yet Grantaire sees Enjolras’ hand trembling even still.

“I understand,” Enjolras says, a dash of the familiar flame sparking in his eyes, and Grantaire gets the sense that he really does comprehend. “I will never forget you shielding me from the National Guard, Grantaire, carrying me through the sewers in your arms. I can never forget how terrified you were when you were hallucinating, how you stood in front of Javert’s gun when he arrested me. I know now that you were willing to die beside me, for me, and I am sorry I didn’t recognize it before.”

“I didn’t exactly make it simple for you, did I?” Grantaire responds with a smidge of a sardonic grin, shakily grasping Enjolras’ hand tighter. “A skeptic ensconced among believers. I cannot…quite explain why I believe in you, I only know that I do. More than I have believed in anything or anyone in my entire sad existence.”

“It is _not_ a sad existence,” Enjolras says fiercely. “You are so intelligent, you are loyal, you are artistic. You need only recognize that and use it to pull yourself out of this hole. You always tell me I’m constantly going on about everyone’s particular spark in the fire, you have one as well. Don’t you see? You are not truly a cynic, Grantaire, if you believe in even just one thing. Even if that thing is a person, is me, is the friendship between us all. It can lead to you believing in yourself, into something more.” Enjolras’ voice is sprinkled with the fervor Grantaire has so missed, his eyes bright with an almost feverish gleam of passionate belief. “You doubt, but belief is strengthened by doubt through overcoming it.”

He has taken both Grantaire’s hands now, eyes boring into Grantaire; he looks like he does when he’s so far gone into his vision of glorious future he sees for them all that it might explode out of him if he doesn’t convince just one other person that that future is there for the taking. But this time, that future is Grantaire and Enjolras is desperate in his need to convince him of it.

Grantaire can’t help it: he smiles, his lips curving upward in genuine joy; Enjolras’ voice infects him like the same feverish glint he sees in his friend’s eyes, he feels his spirit lift as he does every time Enjolras gives a speech such as this.

If only it would stay uplifted when Enjolras’s words cease, if only he could find it within himself to share in the light rather than simply basking in its glow.

“I am not well acquainted with doubt, and you, perhaps, not well acquainted with hope. Then let us help other understand and grow stronger, together. Light and dark reside in all of us, Grantaire, in you and in me; one does not exist without the other, they learn from each other. But it is a choice of which you choose to set your focus upon.”

“You already sound a bit more like yourself.”

“Are you listening?” Enjolras asks, a slice of annoyance re-entering his tone.

“Yes,” Grantaire promises. “Yes.”

“You musn’t put me up in a place you cannot reach,” Enjolras tells him seriously. “Or else you will never find your way up. I would have you at my side, my friend, not at my feet. Rise up from that place and stand with me. Hand in hand. Please.”

“I _want_ to,” Grantaire says, voice hoarse and splintered.

“You _can_ ,” Enjolras emphasizes. “You have courage, I have seen it. It is your very own brand of bravery.”

At this, Grantaire rests his forehead against Enjolras’ chest, his heart so full he cannot speak, and Enjolras’ hands come to rest on his arms in a gesture of comfort, chin resting atop Grantaire’s untamable curls. They remain like this for a several minutes, silent and soaking in this newfound understanding, this bond that’s always been resting just underneath the surface finally fully recognized. Grantaire pulls back, Enjolras’ hands sliding to his shoulders.

“I know I’m to try and refrain from all the Greek deity references, but if you might permit me one thing?” Grantaire asks.

“What's that?” Enjolras asks, raising one eyebrow.

“Allow me to be the Pylades to your Orestes?” Grantaire responds, a happiness he’s not felt since he can remember taking root in his chest as he smiles cheekily at Enjolras. “You cannot rob me of all my references, after all, or I will no longer be allowed to call Combeferre Athena, and you know how much I enjoy that.”

Enjolras smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling, but the familiar blue orbs are steeped in exhaustion. “I think I can do that,” he says, one hand going to his leg, lids falling closed.

“You ought to sleep. Come, I will help you back to your bed.” Grantaire says softly, shifting to stand.

“No.” Enjolras murmurs, sending a shard of sadness through Grantaire despite the softness of his tone. Enjolras rejects his offer of help: this progress he feels they have made in just a few short minutes is a fabrication of his still fevered and unsettled mind.

Enjolras continues quietly, dropping his head to rest on Grantaire’s shoulder, thoroughly exhausted. “No. Let’s just…sit, a while. Here. I’m alright enough for that.”

Relief floods him, tension melting away so suddenly he feels boneless. It was not his offer of help Enjolras rejected, only their parting.

Enjolras is content to rest against Grantaire, and Grantaire pleased to let him as he leans back into Enjolras’ warm, slight frame, breathing in unison. Content he may be, but Enjolras needs to rest nevertheless.

He waits a few moments, and when Enjolras doesn’t stir, Grantaire rises, lifting Enjolras up very carefully into his arms, less of task that it was in the sewers just a month ago because of the weight Enjolras has lost due to his convalescence. Enjolras feels delicate in his arms, an irony, Grantaire thinks, considering that Enjolras is the most resilient person he knows, is capable of taking two men down at once in a fight with a few skilled moves. But now his physical and emotional fragility need time to heal, so that before Grantaire even knows it, Enjolras will arise from the metaphorical punch, standing up once more to fight again for the future of a people that mean so much to him.

“Grantaire, what…”

“Shhh,” Grantaire whispers, feeling tears springing to his eyes, and he blinks them back. “I’m just taking you back to your room; in rather typical fashion, you’ve tired yourself out.”

“I…” Enjolras begins as if to argue, voice heavy with sleep, a thread of pain running through as he winces at a stab in his leg. Even still, he sounds oddly content. “Thank you.” He reaches up and grasps the top edge of Grantaire’s waistcoat for better balance, arm stretched across Grantaire’s chest.

With those few words, he’s gone again, lost to the strong sleep particular to those in convalescence. It takes only a few minutes to reach Enjolras’ room, and Grantaire eases the door open with his foot, finding Combeferre looking up at him from the bedside chair, Courfeyrac solidly asleep in Enjolras’ bed and Feuilly completely out on the chaise lounge, a rarity for someone who doesn’t usually care for sleeping in front of others. Combeferre smiles at Grantaire, raising both eyebrows over the tops of his spectacles.

“Oh shut up, Combeferre,” Grantaire whispers fondly. “It isn’t my fault that our dear friend falls asleep at the drop of a hat these days.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Combeferre answers, watching as Grantaire lays Enjolras down, pulling the covers up and over both him and Courfeyrac before sitting in other chair next to Combeferre, who squeezes his hand briefly before returning wordlessly to his book, the good doctor’s other hand going instinctively to smooth out the corners of Enjolras’ blanket.

Grantaire finds he’s completely forgotten about the brandy; his friends are gathered around him, Enjolras is healing, and that, he discovers, is a much better form of intoxication.

* * *

It’s early morning when their stagecoach arrives in Avignon, so Flora suggests they stop off for some breakfast and then take a fiacre the rest of the way so that they might not wake a still sleeping house.

“You believe they will all still be abed at half past eight?” Aubry asks, eyeing her with anxiety that is nearly never present in his calm, almost stoic demeanor.

“Well René is healing yet,” Flora says, thinking of the letter she’d received from Fauchelevent, the letter simply stating that an incident had occurred and she should come, that René was alive and safe, but it was urgent. There was no more information, Flora knew, for fear of the post getting intercepted and falling into the wrong hands, and worry sits heavy in her stomach. “He might still be sleeping. And rest of the household might just have awoken.”

“And it is not proper to call before at least ten,” her mother chimes in, finishing off the last of her tea.

“Hmmm,” Aubry responds, arching one eyebrow as he thumbs through to the second page of the paper he’s reading. “And Americans are usually known for their propriety, are they Violet?”

“It is too early for your teasing, Aubry,” she says, a smirk on her face. “You are anxious to see René as we all are…you perhaps even more so as you have not seen him in three years because of your own stubbornness. But you must be patient.”

Flora tenses slightly, watching; her mother and her husband always had a close, bantering relationship, but it’s been significantly strained since the eruption between René and Aubry three years ago, an eruption Violet felt Aubry was mostly responsible for. Aubry doesn’t rise to the comment, however: he’d promised Flora before they left he would keep his temper. She watches his eyes fall to the paper, watches them widen, watches his free hand clench.

“Aubry, what is it?” she whispers, not wanting to make a ruckus in the quiet café.

He doesn’t speak but merely hands her the paper, which she takes with frantic hands, feeling her mother hovering over her shoulder.

_Parisian insurgent leader Enjolras declared dead by Prefect of Police._

Her breath ceases flowing for a moment until she remembers the letter from Fauchelevent; René is alive: she knows this, but cannot dispel the disquiet in her heart at the sight of the words, and she knows now that the situation is far more complicated than she foresaw.

“He is not dead,” she says, voice soft so only Aubry and her mother can hear. “I don’t know what’s happened, but we need to go now, proper or not.”

“What is this, Flora?” Aubry asks, and she feels a familiar intensity so similar to their son’s radiating off his person, oddly desperate. René looks so like the two of them, hair the same shade of blonde as Aubry’s was in his younger days, before it started streaking with grey, eyes a similar blue to her own, her smaller build, Aubry’s height.

“Some called him the ‘avenging angel’ and ‘Apollo,’ Aubry says, looking down at the paper again in horror. “Flora, what is this? He cannot be dead and alive. Did they mistake another for him?”

“There isn’t time for questions right now,” Flora insists.

“We won’t receive answers until we arrive, I expect,” Violet adds. “Let us go, I believe I saw some fiacres outside in the street. I need to see René’ immediately, I need to see his face.”

Flora silently agrees, feeling her mother clasp her hand as they pay and exit the café, locating a fiacre just outside the door, her heart feeling as if it splinters more with each beat. Rationally she knows that her son’s alive but she’s terrified of the state he might be in, terrified of what he’s experienced.

It is a mostly quiet ride to the Gillenormand home, surprising, given how much her mother loves chatting, but even she is struck silent by the yearning need to see their boy, their boy who is no longer such, but a young man. A man with so much passion and fight in him that it bursts through every crevice of his being in fiery spurts of love and compassion; it has taken him on a dangerous path through life, a path which has temporarily dimmed the light that always glowed so ferociously within him, and all of them, each in their way, need to see him alive and well before they can truly be at ease.  

In what seems no time at all they approach the front door of the expansive estate, and she feels her husband grasp her hand for just a moment looking for reassurance, uncharacteristic uncertainty plain on his face. She squeezes back. No matter her trepidation at bringing him, she is glad he is with her; she’s spent a lot of time being angry at him for how he responded to his and René’s final fight, angry at his stubborn refusal to come to Paris with her and make amends with their son. Even so, she has never doubted his love for her or for their son: she sees it every time he slips up and asks her if she’s heard from René, even though he’s insisted he wants nothing to do with their child’s life. She sees it in the fleeting glimpses of worry she’s caught on his face since the barricades fell, all too quickly replaced by his usual dignified and stoic mask.

They knock, and the door is surprisingly answered by Fauchelevent himself, likely, she suspects, because he expected them and wanted to greet them.

“Madame Enjolras,” Fauchelevent says, and she knows by the look on his face that her irrational fears about René’s death were unfounded. “You arrived just when I thought you might.”

_Not dead._

_Alive._

_Safe._

_Hurt, but within her reach_.

Breathing a sigh of relief, basking in his open and friendly expression, Flora smiles and greets him.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent, it is so nice to see you again, and thank you so much for your hospitality once more.”

 “It is hardly my hospitality anymore, but the kindness of M. Gillenormand, who actually plans to make the journey here in a few weeks. But you are welcomed in any case,” he says smiling broadly and clasping her hand with both of his and drawing her into the house and holding the door for Aubry and Violet to follow.

“You are far too humble, monsieur,” Flora says and turns Aubry. “May I introduce, my husband, Aubry.”

 “Monsieur Enjolras, a pleasure.”

 “Monsieur Fauchelevent, I have heard so much,” Aubry says, reaching out and grasping Fauchelevent’s hand in a firm shake.

“And I of you.”

The expression on Aubry’s face sours at that and Flora can tell that Fauchelevent regrets his words immediately, instantly sure that René’ has spoken of Aubry, a fact her husband seems certain of.

“And this is my mother, Violet Gagné.”

“Neé Yarborough, thank you very much. I hail from America originally, Monsieur, in case the accent wasn’t a bit of a giveaway.”

“So your grandson has told me. A pleasure to meet you Madame… Gagné?” Valjean says, with an unsure smile of greeting. 

“Violet, please, Monsieur Fauchelevent. The man who saved my grandson’s life certainly deserves to call me by my first name.”

 “Jean then. Please come through, Enjolras, excuse me, René, is resting in the parlor at present.” He says graciously, and leads the way to the parlor door.

They pause outside, and Flora presses a hand to her mother’s arm. “Go on, Maman. Go and see your grandson.”

She looks up at Valjean, meeting his eye. Valjean nods, and excuses himself, following Violet into the parlor.

Aubry frowns in question, arching one eyebrow and gesturing at the door.

“Because,” Flora says, pausing, hesitation stemming from anxiety, not fear, edging into her voice. “I need you to let me go in first and warn René you are here.”

“You didn’t say that in the letter?” Aubry hisses under his breath. “Flora, why in God’s name would you…”

“He’s ill, Aubry,” Flora cuts in, but she’s not unkind. “He nearly died a few weeks ago. He’s also been through quite an ordeal that we don’t know any details of and I’m sure it’s only added to the trauma he’s already experienced. I didn’t want to add to his worries.”

 “Worries?” Aubry protests, keeping his voice to a whisper.  “I’m not a worry, I’m his father!”

“Yes. And you two have been fighting since he was fourteen years old.” Flora returns, voice tight and quiet, but without judgment. “And you haven’t seen him in three years, haven’t spoken to him. You have to face that fact.”

"I do love him Flora, surely you must know that."

"I know. I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes, darling. I've never doubted that for a moment."

"You think he won't want to see me? I...I want to see him."

"You will. Just let me tell him, all right? He wants to see you too, no matter what he says to the contrary. But the love is there between you, both of you have made that clear despite your anger. Anger which stems from your passion, and that is better than cold indifference."

“Flora,” he says, his usual crisp tone so similar to his son’s strangled with a mixture of frustration and desperation. “First we receive a letter from this man I’ve never even met…”

“I’ve met him,” Flora interrupts, cutting him off. “He’s a quality man. He saved their lives at complete risk to his own. Not to mention that he’s opened his home to not just René, but all of his friends.” She lowers her voice, utterly serious. “Our son was being hunted down by the police for treason and this man housed him…that is no small matter.”

 “And I’m thankful, but first we receive this letter from summoning us here, that he’s alive but god knows what…and then the next thing I know we see this,” he says, clenching the newspaper in his hand. “Declaring him dead. I just want to find out what’s going on.”

“That’s what I mean to find out, but give me a moment and let me tell him you’re here,” she adds firmly.

“You are more patient than me,” Aubry says, a sad fondness in his tone. “I will do as you ask, and wait.”

She kisses his hand quickly before turning away, heart pounding wildly as she goes to see her son.

* * *

Enjolras is sitting in the parlor with the entire household save Madame Bellard and Touissant, who are busying themselves in the kitchen and about the house preparing for the arrival of Enjolras’ mother and grandmother, when there is a knock at the front door, which Valjean himself gets up to answer. The conversation continues around him, but Enjolras’ eyes flit to the doorway, straining to hear the voices coming nearer; there’s Valjean’s, his mother’s, his grandmother’s, and then…is that his father’s voice he hears?

Surely not, surely he is hearing things. The Laudanum has sent him quite mad, he’s certain.

“All right, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks from where he’s made himself at home on the arm of Enjolras’ chair.

“I think my father is here,” Enjolras says, feeling rather as if his insides might melt in his shock.

He sees the look of surprise on his friends’ faces, but there’s not time for a response, because suddenly the door opens and his grandmother strides through the room, his name on her lips, Valjean following in her wake.

“René!” she exclaims, her familiar American accent less pronounced than when he was a child from all her years of living in France, but still ever present, as she dashes over to him as quickly as possible, taking a seat on the same ottoman where his leg rests. “Oh René, you are alive! Oh, we were so worried, we saw the paper as we came through Avignon.” She pauses, taking his face in her hands and peppering it with kisses, and Enjolras feels his cheeks flush deep red. But he allows it, knowing how much she must have worried, and also knowing that any attempt to stop her will only make it worse.

“Hello grand-mere,” he replies affectionately, warm familiarity through him at memories of his childhood and scenes so similar to this. He kisses both of her cheeks in return. He’s about to ask her what paper she means, but she speaks first.

“Are you feverish?” she asks, feeling his forehead. “In pain?”

“My fever’s broken,” he assures her. “There’s some pain, some weariness, but no more fever, no more infection.”

“Are you sure? You’re flushed, and ever so thin…”

“Mamé, I’m fine. I promise.” He smiles and takes her hand from his head and kisses it. “Recovering, slowly but surely, under Combeferre’s watch. He’s become a nearly qualified physician since you saw him last. All of my friends take excellent care of me.”

She nods, and wipes her eyes, smiling so completely relieved to find him not only alive, but well enough, up and about, smiling, already protesting her fussing. She’d imagined the worst, her daughter’s description of his continuing fever running rampant in her imagination.

“I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you. Alive and whole, well…” she glances down at the leg propped up beside her. “Mostly.”

Enjolras has the distinct impression there is a scolding somewhere in his future, she’ll manage it somehow. He is granted a reprieve for the time being as his grandmother looks around at the young people gathered around them, each donning a different expression of amusement and curiosity.

“And who are all these lovely friends of yours?” she asks, glancing around the room at all of them.

 As Courfeyrac is closest, still on the arm of the chair he begins with him.

“This is Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius, Cosette, Gavroche, and you’ve met Combeferre, of course,” Enjolras answers, pointing at each of them in turn. “And everyone, this is my grandmere, Violet Gagne.”

“Charmed madame,” Courfeyrac says, his grin a bit like a cat’s as he sees the traces of lipstick on Enjolras’ face. “I’m pleased to meet you, finally.”

“And I all of you, I’ve heard much,” Violet answers as Courfeyrac kisses her hand. “Combeferre dear, it has been ages, do let me take a look at you.”

Combeferre smiles, rising from his place next to Feuilly and goes over to Violet.

“Madame Gagne,” he says, kissing her cheeks when she offers them. “It is wonderful to see you again. I know René’s been looking forward to your arrival.”

“Grand-mere, what was in the paper?” he asks, putting a gentle hand on her arm and drawing her attention back to him.

He’s thwarted again when his mother enters, walking hurriedly over to him, her eyes roving over his form.

“René,” she breathes, sitting on the arm of the chair Courfeyrac doesn’t occupy, so now he’s surrounded on all sides. He silences his need for answers for just a moment as his mother’s arms wrap carefully around him, pulling his body as close as possible to her own.

She pulls back, her thumb wiping away the remainder of her mother’s lipstick, a half-smile curving up on her lips. He doesn’t shy away at the fussing, knowing how much she must have fretted ever since she received Valjean’s letter, how much she already worried since the barricade. Since before.

“How are you darling?” she asks, surveying his face and the places she knows he’s wounded, eyes darting down to the new bandage around his hand.

“Better,” Enjolras replies, taking her hand when he sees it shaking. “Maman, what was in the paper? And is Père here? I thought I heard his voice in the hall.”

Flora hesitates for a moment, holding his hand tighter. “He is. He was concerned for you, but I apologize, I did not say he was coming in the letter I sent Monsieur Fauchelevent because I wanted to tell you in person.”

“It’s all right,” he tells her, because he cannot be angry, not when she knows she’s been caught between the two of them for so long, wants to help heal the break between them. “But what did you find in the…”

He’s cut off once more, his mouth pressing into a thin line as the man in question strides into the room.

His father.

His father whom he hasn’t seen in three years.

Almost without thinking he seizes Courfeyrac’s wrist from where his friend sits on the arm of his chair, holding tight to it and trying to rearrange his facial features into a less surprised expression, eyes flickering around the room at their entire household surrounding him, watching him in this exceedingly vulnerable, unexpected moment. They’d been laughing just moments before, and now the room fills with a thick, stifling tension.

He casts another glance at his mother, who looks apologetic, but nods at Aubry in an encouraging manner.

“Père,” Enjolras finally says, letting go of Courfeyrac and making to rise from the chair.

“Don’t get up on my behalf René,” Aubry says, waving his hand, his tone not altogether unfriendly. “Sit, I know you were rather badly injured.”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras replies, allowing it when Courfeyrac helps him up out of the chair. He stands, but today has not been his best, and his stance, even with the cane, is unstable.

“Sit, son, just sit,” Aubry says, looking very much as if he wants to touch Enjolras, but withholds.

Enjolras, for his part, suppresses a snort; ‘son’, he hasn’t been this man’s son for three years, but bites his tongue and relents, sitting back down with Courfeyrac’s assistance, trying to keep the peace, trying to save his mother more strife.

“Maman didn’t say in her letter you were making the journey with her,” Enjolras says, relenting, heeding the inner voices telling him to remain polite, awkwardness filling him as the worlds of his chosen and blood families collide, tension between him and his father amplifying the feeling. “She only mentioned grand-mere. I wasn’t…expecting you.”

Sensing the awkward air, Courfeyrac speaks up.

“We’ll all let you catch up, shall we?” he asks, squeezing Enjolras’ forearm, a silent question of whether or not he wants them all to stay or go.

“I do believe I smell breakfast,” Enjolras says, squeezing Courfeyrac’s arm in return. “So you all go. We’ll join you later.”

Enjolras hears Courfeyrac exhale; it’s clear that he doesn’t want to leave Enjolras alone with this, but also doesn’t want to budge in on such a reunion, wants to make this sudden uncomfortable situation as easy as possible. He squeezes Enjolras’ arm as he looks up, meeting Combeferre’s gaze in silent communication; they will not venture far. Marius shoots him an encouraging smile as they all exit, ushering out a very curious Gavroche. Enjolras watches his mother whisper something to Valjean, who stays seated.

“How could you not expect me?” Aubry continues once the door closes behind everyone else, direct as ever, a trait Enjolras knows he learned from this very man. “From what your mother told me you nearly died, René, and despite our estrangement, that is not something I choose to ignore. You’re my son, my own flesh and blood.”

Enjolras takes in a deep breath and exhales; he will do his best with this situation, will try and contain his anger and his hurt at the baggage between them. He will move forward, will appreciate the fact that his father has taken this step to mend their relationship.

But he remains wary, trying to avoid letting the defensiveness slip into his voice.

“Might you tell me what’s in this paper I keep hearing about then?” Enjolras asks, polite. “I would greatly appreciate it.”

Aubry’s expression morphs into a scowl he almost instantly wipes away, replacing it with a neutral expression as he pulls the folded paper from his jacket pocket.

“The Paris police have declared you dead, apparently,” Aubry says, half-shoving the paper into Enjolras’ hands, their fingers brushing for a mere moment before his father jerks away. “And we’d like to know the details, if you please.”

Enjolras feels his mother shift nervously beside him, anxious for the story of what happened, as he knows Valjean couldn’t put details in the letter.

“What _happened_ mon cher?” Flora asks, leaning closer, and glancing back at Valjean, who sits across from them, watching with a concerned but almost protective glance.

“You must tell us dear heart,” Violet adds. “We have been fretting since your mother received the letter from Monsieur Fauchelevent.”

Enjolras looks up at his father, who still stands near them, hands behind his back, expectant.

“Maman has told you both why we…why I had to leave Paris?”

His grandmother nods, taking his hand, eyes on his face. His father nods once, tersely, eyes fixed on the window.

“Inspector Javert,” Enjolras begins, suddenly wishing his friends were here again, feeling the disturbingly familiar panic sweep over him, poking at his stomach and twisting it painfully, sending the nerves spreading through his system. He wants Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder, Courfeyrac smiling encouragingly at his side.  His mother is silently bewildered but still in tune with him, takes his other hand in her own, mindful of the bandage, and the feeling eases a bit.

“He somehow followed our trail,” he continues, looking at Valjean as he speaks, seeing the older man’s fraction of a nod, encouraging him, bolstering him. “He finally found us here about a week ago, and I was arrested. He placed me in one of the Avignon jails for the night and…” he breathes in again, scarcely able to get a decent one.

No, he tells himself. He cannot lose his nerve in front of his father. He cannot. He has gone several days without an attack of nerves, and he will not begin again now, at the very least he will not allow it until he is out of sight of his father.

“There was a woman there, a prostitute who was injured,” he says, looking from Valjean and back to his father, who has an impassive expression etched onto his face, but Enjolras doesn’t miss the flicker of upset glimmering within his eyes, an echo of the man he knew so well as a child, the man who taught him horsemanship, the man whose laugh rang through the room when Enjolras tackled his legs from behind, the man who showed him that thunderstorms were nothing to fear.

“And neither Javert nor local officer would call for a doctor until it was too late,” he says, the memories pounding at his head like the continuous swing of a hammer. “She died. And my reaction was such that when the doctor did arrive Javert saw fit to overdose me with Laudanum.”

“What?” Flora asks, voice higher-pitched than normal, clearly unable to restrain herself.

“How is it that you’re sitting here and not in a prison cell?” Aubry asks, the emotionless expression broken through by fear-tinged disbelief.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent,” Enjolras says simply. “He talked Javert down, even while the man threatened my life. He released me, took my blood and put it on my handkerchief as proof I was dead. That’s why the cut on my hand. That’s why you saw that article in the paper.”

 “Not that I’m ungrateful,” Aubry, says, his voice the tiniest bit softer than before. “But how exactly did he see fit to release you?”

“I knew inspector Javert from my younger days,” Valjean says evenly, looking at Enjolras as he speaks. “And he saw the bloodshed at the barricades. I convinced him that there need not be anymore.”

“Threatened your life?” Flora questions, more concerned with this than the wherewithal of how. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter, Maman,” Enjolras says, wanting to spare her the hurt, unable to erase the terrified expressions on his friends’ faces in that moment from his mind and not desiring another to add to his collection.

But she is insistent. “It does. I want to know. Tell me.”

“He put a knife to my neck,” Enjolras says, wincing as she gasps, but he cannot lie to her, cannot when she has always been so willing to understand him, to understand his passion for the cause he and his friends fight so fervently for. He does not, however, tell her of Javert’s gun to his head; it isn’t a vital piece of the story, and he can spare her that detail. “He wasn’t quite…stable at the time.”

That, Enjolras thinks to himself, is putting it lightly, but he doesn’t care to burden his family with the details, and if he’s honest, he does not want to think further right now on just how horrifying Javert’s laugh was when he finally cracked.

“So to the world, you are a deceased man?” Aubry asks, finally sitting down on the couch next to Valjean, looking around as if he’s searching for answers in thin air.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, feeling as if someone has socked him the chest as he speaks.

“But you are alive,” Violet says, toying with a loose strand of his hair, more subdued than he believes he’s ever heard her. “And that, my dear, is what is important to us.”

Aubry says nothing, and his muteness rings in the silence.

Flora glances at her husband as if willing him to speak, then looks back to Valjean.

“Thank you,” she almost whispers, voice tremulous with raw, unchecked emotion. “Thank you for bringing him back to us again. I don’t know what we can do to repay you.”

Somehow, his mother’s obvious gratitude, her love for him, along with his grandmother’s palpable relief, her words that his life was enough, almost fills the hole of his father’s silence.

Almost.

He wishes he didn’t care about his father’s feelings toward him, but the smallest part of him still does, and, he suspects, always will.

“You are most welcome,” Valjean says, smiling at Enjolras. “You should know what a brave man your son is; he was almost entirely physically incapacitated by the Laudanum, by his injuries, but he stood tall in front of Javert, stood up to him even with a knife to his neck, sacrificed himself for his friends. And I think that, no matter the difficult nature of this situation, that is something of which you should be immensely proud.”

Enjolras doesn’t miss the pointed glance Valjean sends his father, a rare flicker of irritation flaring in his kind eyes.

“We are,” Flora says, firm. “We most certainly are.”

“Runs in our blood, that,” Violet replies, hand resting on her grandson’s knee.

Enjolras can’t help but smile at these two strong women who helped make him who he is, at how much they intrinsically understand and support him.

He looks back up at his father, who is already looking at him, a deep frown pulling his lips downward, an undecipherable glitter of something Enjolras can’t put his finger on swimming in his eyes. His father, though broader, is almost like a mirror reflection of himself. So outwardly similar, and yet in his mind, so inwardly different.

“Breakfast will most certainly be ready, if you’d care to join us all,” Valjean says, dispelling the tension which has fallen as the elder and younger Enjolras regard each other.

Enjolras gets to his feet stiffly, glad of his mother’s help but already anticipating his grandmother’s tutting, but accepts both their help as they flank him and allows them to usher him into dining room. Sure enough, as soon as he is standing both begin to fuss over how much weight he has lost. Valjean follows close behind, chuckling.

Enjolras stops for a moment, allowing his mother and grandmother ahead of him as he stops in front of his father, holding out the paper to him like a placeholder peace offering. Aubry snatches the paper, glaring daggers at his son. Flora and Violet miss the moment, but Valjean, just behind Enjolras, does not. Enjolras forces himself away, turning to continue course.

His father follows in stony silence, and Enjolras’ smile falters and falls as he sees his countenance.

Complete and utter disappointment.

 


	30. Family Feuding

Javert is quite certain he hasn’t slept a wink in the few days since he returned to Paris.

This is unreasonable of course; he has slept, but what little he has achieved has been plagued by the same disquieting thoughts as his waking hours. Valjean’s voice haunts him, always so irritatingly, unnervingly calm, only occasionally sprinkled with hints of bare aggression, mercy running threads through every syllable and wrapping him up tight. He sees Enjolras’ face lit with passion, with an idealism of which he will not relinquish, an unwavering certainty that this bloody tumult will pave the way to peaceful, weaponless progress, a belief in the good of humanity that Javert has never possessed in his life. He sees an image of the boy offering him water at the barricade, blonde hair shining around his head as if he was an angel of life and death all at once. He hears Valjean’s gun go off, its bullet never touching him. These criminals both offered him mercy, and in turn he offered it in return, loathing himself but unable to resist, still trapped within his own mind.

Gray.

Not black.

Not white.

Gray.

He doesn’t understand this gray area, has never believed the world as complex as others might, and yet that ever present voice counters his own at every turn, and there is no return to his world of stark contrast, of black and white, good and bad, right and wrong. By letting Valjean go free, by letting Enjolras go free, by leaving all of those insurgents behind him and concocting stories and leaving trails to convince his superiors that Enjolras is actually dead, he has left all semblance of his former life behind him. He let them go, so does that mean he personally absolves them of their crimes?

_Yes._

No.

The law has certainly not absolved them of their crimes, Javert feels that reminder every time he walks into the station dedicated to upholding the law, feels the stares of his fellow officers, some concerned, some confused, some mocking, some judgmental. They know he’s being forced to retire, know the entire ordeal and he hides his cracked psyche from them, fearful of them seeing past any of his defenses.

He’s had enough of that.

_Perhaps we are all wrong!_ He wants to shout at them. _What is the law? What is mercy? How do we choose who dictates either?_

Perhaps they already have the answers to these questions, perhaps it has only been he who was so led astray. Perhaps his peers have let things go where he wouldn’t, released a prisoner for stealing when they were hungry, forgiven a squabble in the street, shown kindness toward a prostitute who got in trouble with a customer.  But how to tell right from wrong this way? How to understand where to draw the line of who is good and who is bad?

_It’s not that simple,_ the voice reminds him. _It has never been that simple._ _People are not simple and neither is circumstance. You_ _should know that well enough._

He has only tried to make it so, tried to become such the opposite of his childhood that he became a shell of a human being.

Yet he still doesn’t know how to _understand._ Valjean was no doubt as poor as himself, ended up in prison for near on twenty years, was released an angry, hate-filled man who is now the benevolent father Javert cannot wish away from his mind. How did he change?

_The kindness of another. Mercy._

Enjolras comes from money, Javert knows as much from doing his investigation, the boy could have lived his life comfortably and without concern, if he’d wished. But no, no he’d given his life over to the revolution, to the people, as sure as Javert had handed his over to the law, but with a great deal more understanding of humanity, a willingness to broaden himself, a broadening Javert internally fights, even now.

Empathy. Fraternite.

Love.

_Avignon,_ Javert thinks suddenly. _Avignon. I must go to Avignon._ There are answers there, answers he must have, answers Valjean, Enjolras, Cosette, and all those treasonous young men must give him. They are not the sort of people from whom he ever wished to seek answers but it doesn’t matter now because that’s where the answers _are_. He must seek these answers, understand and resolve the dichotomy tearing his moral code into tiny pieces and scattering them to the wind, along with his rational mind.

He has another three weeks to report to work, three weeks to finish his paperwork and finish, essentially, the life he’s known for years. Then he will collect his pension, collect the money he has dutifully saved living frugally for his entire life, and he will go to Avignon.

_Yes_ , the voice whispers. _Yes_.

Because right now, in this moment, it is his only course of action. _They_ planted the seeds of these ideas in his mind, _they_ did this to him with their mercy and their revolutions and their wretched shades of gray. They can help him understand, he will _make_ them help him understand.

He must.

* * *

Enjolras hadn’t thought it possible, but somehow within the expansive hallways of this house, he feels confined. He’s felt trapped ever since his injuries occurred, trapped in his body and trapped in his anxiety and grief filled psyche, trying to find himself. He’s wished for long walks outside deemed impossible first by infection, then by pain, wished for fresh, warm summer air to fill his lungs. But now he feels even more stifled, unable to find any time to himself for even a few moments. It’s odd, he muses, just days ago he feared being alone at all, and yet now it’s all he desires. Now his longed for mobility returns ever so slowly, and it only serves to emphasize his infirmity more.

“René?” he hears his grandmother ask as if from far off. “Did you hear me dear?”

“I…no, I’m sorry,” Enjolras answers, shaking himself out of his thoughts and focusing in on his grandmother, who sits in the smaller drawing room with him, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire.

“Quite all right,” she says, patting his cheek. “You must be tired, up and about all day when you’re still convalescing. I was only saying I was going to go and speak with Toussaint; her pastries this morning were delightful, and I want to take the recipe back home to Jacqueline so she might try them out.” She looks at him critically, assessing his condition with the practiced eye of a grandmother. “Are you quite sure you don’t want to have a lie down?”

Enjolras nods. “I don’t feel as if I could sleep at present. I’m fine here, thank you, grand-mere.” He smiles at her, quite unable to think of anything other words to say, assurances to offer.

She kisses the top of his head, lips lingering for a few moments longer than they normally might as if she’s memorizing the very way his hair falls.

“Take care of him while I’m gone, all right you two?” Violet asks, winking at Courfeyrac and Grantaire. “I can tell as sure as my hair is white that the two of you are the troublemakers of this lot. You particularly Courfeyrac, I see mischief twinkling in those merry green eyes of yours.”

“Spurious accusations!” Courfeyrac exclaims, hand clasped over his heart playfully as he grins. “But I am a frightful liar, and you are right, Madame. But don’t let Grantaire’s current quietness fool you; once he begins he can get into nearly as much trouble as myself. But when it comes to your grandson, I promise you may trust us with his life.”

“As you have all well-proven,” Violet says, gentle and incredibly sincere as her eyes rove over Enjolras once more. “I will return, boys.”

With that she’s gone, leaving Enjolras alone with his two friends, who pounce upon his odd temperament almost instantly.

“You always speak of your grandmother so fondly, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, but there is no judgment in his tone, only concerned curiosity. “Have spoken often of her immense influence in your politics, of the long talks the two of you shared in your formative years. Yet now you are mostly silent in her presence. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Enjolras sighs, but there is little sense in avoiding the topic with his friends, who know him far too well to allow that for long.

“I’m not altogether sure how to behave in front of my family after all of this,” Enjolras admits, meeting each of their eyes. Grantaire, he notices, looks a bit unsure if his presence is desired in this conversation, so Enjolras holds his gaze a bit longer, silently letting him know it is. “So much has happened since I saw my grandmother last, so much as happened even since I saw my mother before we left Paris. And my father is another matter entirely…I…”

He feels Courfeyrac’s hands cover his own, reassuring as they always are, emboldening him as sure as Combeferre’s ground him.

“They only wish that you be yourself,” Courfeyrac tells him. “That is what we all wish. You need not try and be anyone else, my friend. I also suspect that is what your father desires as well, beneath all the layers going on between you. But what is most important here is that you feel comfortable being yourself as you always have. It is one of the things I’ve always admired most about you; you’re incredibly comfortable in your own skin, unapologetic for who you are.”

Courfeyrac taps the end of his nose, an action only he, Jehan, and Joly ever attempted, and he sees the memories of their friends alive in Courfeyrac’s eyes as he draws his finger away with a melancholy smile matching Enjolras’ own.

“You are ever reminding me of my propensity to overcomplicate things,” Enjolras says. “Thank you. My mind is rather…tangled, currently.”

“It’s something similar to some words of wisdom my oldest sister offered me,” Courfeyrac replies, leaning back in his chair. “The night my father realized the extent of my political affiliations when he and my mother discovered the republican pamphlets in my rooms. What a row we had. I wasn’t as open about it as you were with your parents, and I think that was part of what fueled my father’s anger, the shock. It is not entirely the same situation, and I am still on speaking terms with my father, but I do empathize with the lack of understanding; my father pleads with me to come home, and yet knows I will not. Adelaide bid me to be myself, and eventually both our parents would simply come around to accepting it; it’s how they are.”

“Would like you some time alone?” Grantaire asks, peering at Enjolras, eyes narrowed slightly in inquisitiveness. “You’ve had a bit of long day already, and it’s still two hours before supper. You’ve been surrounded by one person or another since you awoke.”

“I might like a few minutes alone in the garden,” Enjolras says, feeling relief spread through him at the mere idea of fresh air, some time with his thoughts.

“Well then you should have said so, Enjolras,” Grantaire scoffs, but the roll of his eyes is nothing but affectionate. “You are the most stubborn person.”

“You are not one to preach on that subject,” Enjolras answers, smirking at Grantaire good-naturedly.

“The two of you combined are a stubborn force,” Courfeyrac adds, instantly at Enjolras’ side, cane in his hand. “A hurricane, if you toss Combeferre’s own particular brand of stubbornness in there. I simply don’t know how we ever put up with any of you.”

Enjolras chuckles as Grantaire takes his revenge on that comment by elbowing Courfeyrac deftly in the ribs, a melodramatic yelp echoing through the room. They walk him out to the garden, both watching each step, both jumping to seize his arms when his bad leg catches itself on the step. After a few minutes they’ve settled him down in a chair in the garden overlooking the grounds, and they bid him farewell as they run to catch up to Combeferre, Feuilly, Gavroche, and Marius, who are off in the distance, walking. He wonders briefly why Cosette is not with them, surmising that perhaps she is spending time with her father. Enjolras breathes in, half gulping the air in, reveling in the expanse of sky high above him he’d last seen from outside the jail, Javert holding Valjean’s knife to his neck as the sun beat down upon them..

This outdoor experience is infinitely more pleasant.

He’s alone for perhaps twenty minutes or so when he’s no longer left wondering at Cosette’s absence among his friends walking in the distance. The door opens behind him and she steps out, starting a little when she sees him sitting there.

“Oh, Enjolras,” she says, smiling as she sits down, pulling her hair over one shoulder as she sits down across from him, the sun glinting off the dark blonde strands. “I thought you might be upstairs resting.”

“And I thought you might be out walking with the others,” he says, noticing a slightly faraway look in her eyes that are a strikingly similar shade of blue as his own.

“It appears we had the same idea then,” she says, focusing back in on him. “I was spending some time with Papa and then ended up chatting with your grandmother in the kitchen. She’s lovely, Enjolras, practically insisted on talking about the wedding. And I’m so excited I couldn’t resist. She’s so vibrant and wonderful to talk with!”

“She is,” Enjolras says fondly, a memory of his mother walking sleepily into the kitchen one Christmas when he was sixteen, only to find Violet and himself talking animatedly over volumes of Paine and Rousseau, crumbs of pastries spread over the tabletop. “She’s a good many stories to share, I can assure, and opinions too.”

 “So I gathered!” Cosette exclaims, excited, but still with that same gleam in her eye. “As much as I adore all of you boys, it is lovely to have other women to chat with. I already got on so well with your mother, so I should have expected just the same with your grandmother.”

 Enjolras thinks Cosette must miss the mother she hardly even knew, this ghost of a woman whose name is whispered with such reverence, must miss her especially now, in light of her engagement, and at the wistful look in Cosette’s eyes he knows he’s right. He cannot consider his own childhood without his mother, or his grandmother for that matter, or, indeed, his father despite their later differences, and he feels a pang of empathetic longing on behalf of the girl beside him. Cosette is so close with Valjean that it’s almost easy to forget the effect her missing mother might have, but he sees it in her face now, sees it in Valjean’s own slightly panicked, lost expression every time wedding plans are mentioned. He wonders if he might mention it to his own mother, to see if there’s any help they might lend, because as pleased as Courfeyrac is to help select clothes of any nature, even he would admit a woman’s touch would certainly be useful in finding a dress for Cosette.

_Fantine_ , he thinks to himself. _This mysterious figure that haunts Valjean and Cosette._ _What an extraordinary woman you must have been to give birth to such a remarkable daughter, a bright light despite the darkness she once lived within._

He smiles wider, thinking of Feuilly and his enthusiasm for the world, a world that might do everything it can to stamp that out, but Feuilly refuses.

“I was around girls my own age a great deal when we lived in the convent,” Cosette continues. “But that has been a bit now, and I have sorely missed female company. I…”

She stops mid-sentence as voices float toward them from the veranda on the on the second floor that is just out of their line of sight.

“Flora!” Enjolras hears his father half-shout, a departure from his usual calm, even when he’s frustrated or angry. “We have not even discussed what I’ve seen in these papers from Paris. The names they’ve given him… ‘avenging angel’ and ‘an insurgent some called Apollo.’ I don’t even know who this man…this _boy_ is anymore!”

“He is your _son_ , Aubry!” Enjolras hears his mother reply, her voice not dissimilar to an angry hiss. “The very same babe you held in your arms when he was born twenty-five years ago. And he is not a boy, he is a young man. You have to come to terms with what he is capable of and also the fact that he has made his own decisions separate from you. You have not let yourself know him.”

“You are forever protecting him!” Aubry says, actually shouting now, and Enjolras blanches. His father hardly ever raises his voice to his mother, either cut off by a single, scathing look from her or simply by warrant of ever being able to stay truly angry at her for long. Frustrated, certainly, but never truly enraged. He’d fallen desperately in love with her, nearly upon first sight, or so his grandmother says, and perhaps he fears he will isolate her further.

They fight over him, Enjolras knows, feeling the familiar tearing sensation in his heart, a rift between family peace and the cause that pumps through his blood like fire, life itself, and he cannot choose the former, despite the pain it causes him, causes his parents. The voices of the oppressed, the suffering, the hungry, call to him louder than any raised voice here, the warmth of the future that is just within their grasp bathing him in pure, blinding light, searing his eyelids with its power. He knows the inevitable beauty of that potential, and he will not let it go, not even now. _Especially_ not now.

“No,” Flora says, lowering her voice and drawing his attention back to their voices. “Our son is so incredibly capable of protecting himself, capable of protecting anyone around him.  He does not need me to protect him from you and he never has. Even if I wish that I could protect him from the world, wish I could have protected him from all the pain and trauma he’s experienced lately, I can’t. No. I am trying to open your eyes to accepting our son for who he is because you are missing it, all of it, have missed it for three years and before. He cannot remain the little boy we knew forever, but you would also do well not to forget that part of him is still the same son you knew. He has always had this intensity within, this innate ability to make a difference, Aubry. I see it, I see how he inspires people. To Paris, he is almost ethereal, ‘the avenging angel.’ To his friends he is a most beloved companion and leader. Put the papers down and remember he is also still your son. Our son.”

She is met with only silence.

Enjolras cannot make out the words she says next, only hears the sounds of her heels leaving the veranda. Cosette meets his eye, unsure for a moment before coming over to Enjolras and sitting in the chair beside his, taking his hand and squeezing his fingers.

“I wish I had some sort of words of wisdom to offer,” she tells him, honest. “But I feel we are all lost a bit right now, in our own ways, so I can only offer my ear to listen.”

“You are good at that,” Enjolras tells her, lips quirking up a little.

“Marius tells me the very same,” she says, gazing down at the ring on her finger, eyes full to bursting with light. “And Papa as well, now that we are both working toward being more open with each other about…well everything, I suppose. The past. The present. But sometimes I find people just need a person to listen to them, rather than offering answers.”

“You’re right,” he tells her, returning her squeeze. “I am…not sure if I can quite fathom the needed words at the moment, but you are a wonderful friend to have, Cosette.”

“You as well my good sir,” Cosette says, standing up with a flourish. “Now how about some tea, maybe? Calming properties and what not.”

“I’d like that,” he says, feeling the familiar pain in his palm as it presses against the cane, the ache in his shoulder, the sear in his leg. The laudanum has helped a great deal, though it makes him woozy if he takes more than a small dose at once, so it’s a balance he and Combeferre must achieve. The physical pain, the emotional turmoil, however, is alleviated somewhat by this wonderful new friend.  “Remind me when all of this is settled to speak with you about Olympe Gouges ‘The Rights of Woman.’ Combeferre introduced me to it several years ago, and I think you might find it most illuminating. I know I did.”

Cosette nods exuberantly, intrigue clear in her eyes, before she loops her arm through his and they walk back toward the house together.

* * *

Enjolras comes to dinner preparing for a fight, but he only hopes one won’t come, hopes his father’s ever present need for perfect manners that has only increased over time, will prevail.

The minutes pass and he starts relaxing, nervous at his father’s near silence, at the gaze fixed almost constantly, warily on him, but he engages the others in conversation, ears catching on his mother asking Combeferre about his final medical training.

“I finished my externship at Necker,” Combeferre tells Flora. “I only have my final exam to take, and as soon as everything settles here, I’m going to speak to write my professors in Paris about taking the exam at the university in Marseilles, as a matter of fact.”

“Combeferre was the darling of his professors,” Courfeyrac teases from his place next to Enjolras. “I’m sure they’ll be tripping over themselves to accommodate him.”

“What of you, Courfeyrac?” Flora questions, smiling at the comment.

“I should hope to find a law firm, perhaps open my own practice with Marius,” Courfeyrac replies. “And hopefully in the future, once everything finds its place here, with your son as well. That was always the plan, and though this is a different future than we planned, I wholeheartedly believe one still exists.”

 “I agree,” Enjolras says, feeling more grateful to Courfeyrac than he ever has, and that is certainly saying something, as he’s felt grateful for everything Courfeyrac embodies ever since they met.

A contentedness he hasn’t felt for weeks overcomes him: he’s still anxious, he’s still in pain, and he certainly still grieves with every fiber within him, but he does, at least feel a smidge more himself at hearing Courfeyrac’s words.

That is, until his father’s words, so long waiting since dinner began, slice instantly through the feeling.

"What future?" Aubry snaps suddenly. "What future? You have no future!"

Enjolras looks up at his father, eyes widening, unable to hide his surprise at the outburst. His father has a temper, just as he does, but he has always been adept at keeping it in check in company. Enjolras recalls growing into his adolescent years, into the years when the relationship with his father, once so close, so easy, grew difficult, remembers his father bidding him to remain quieter at the dinner table when company was present, refused to let him engage them in any conversation he deemed unfit lest it offend them, let alone politics or philosophy.

Unbidden, Enjolras feels a prickle on his cheek, an echo of this man's hand slapping into his skin with unsteady anger. He sees his father’s furious face on the day of his departure flash in front of him, quickly morphing into complete shock at his own actions, staring at his hand and then back up to his son’s reddening cheek, sees his father open his mouth to speak, but Enjolras had turned so quickly on his heel that there’d been no chance for words, and it was far too late. He hears that voice, hard as stone and yet emotion still cracking it at the corners, reverberating as he storms through the doorway.

_“If you want to throw your life away for some hopeless cause that is bound to fail, then you will not speak to me further! You shame your family! Do not come back to this house until you are ready to see sense!”_

The present comes back into focus, and Aubry sits stiffly in the chair opposite Enjolras, eyes burning with something rather unidentifiable. "You do realize that for all intents and purposes you are dead? You're a fugitive, for Christ's sake. One wrong move, one wrong _word_ , and they’ll arrest you, throw you in prison, possibly execute you."

Setting down his knife and fork with a forced, deliberate care he meets his father’s eyes, speaking slowly

"I am _painfully_ aware."

Each word is punctuated with growing anger, embarrassment that his father would start this now, in front of everyone, treating him once again as if he were a petulant adolescent.

"Are you? You all sit here and talk of the future, about your careers, your lives. That is all very well for them; they might be on watch lists and need to show discretion about setting foot in Paris for a time, but that will pass soon enough. But what of you? A life of running and hiding from the law?” Aubry laughs, the sound derisive and hollow. “You cannot practice law now, it would be farce. You mother told me you finished your studies and passed the bar and for _what_? No, you were too interested in your precious cause to think of the life you might have had,” Aubry says in a harsh tone, throwing his hands up in the air, throwing back his chair and standing, far too lost in his anger to think of propriety now as he rounds the table towards his son. "I nearly despaired three years ago when you walked away from us, your family, your duty, but I always hoped you might come to your senses, return and inherit what was rightfully yours, continue our name, our line! At the very least I didn’t expect a treasonous criminal for a son!"

Enjolras snorts, derisive. He wants to remain calm, he wants to keep his senses, but it grows harder with every second, because his father is attacking the core of him, of his soul, and he is already struggling to regain himself. He bites back his response to the treasonous criminal retort, and stands as well, looking his father straight in the eye, focusing on making a logical argument as best he can in the heat of this very personal, very emotional moment.

"My _duty_? My duty is to the people of France! To give voice to those who have none, to fight for those who cannot! Why can you still not see that, after all that has happened? The economy has hit rock bottom, the price of bread skyrocketing so that even people who work fourteen hour days can scarcely afford bread for themselves, let alone a family! Cholera spreads and the people who suffer most have no voice! All across France things worsen! What good is our name, our _line_ , when our motherland herself is crumbling? Every man and woman are my brothers and sisters, father, my kin, more so than you ever were. I didn't walk away from my family, but towards it. I walked away from _you_."

His father takes a step backwards, struck, not by a hand but the conviction of his son's words.

"Cast off the artificial confines of society! Reach out your hand to your fellow man and see that we are all equal, and that every man deserves his freedom, his liberty, that we must all work together to achieve a better society," Enjolras raises his hand, illustrating his words with actions. His father stands paralyzed. "Can you not see how man is imprisoned, not by bars and chains but by class and prejudice? What is the point of my life if not to do something to help my own people, my own country, when I see the misery so clearly in front of me?"

"That was not your choice to make!" Aubry bellows, exploding in rage. "You idealistic child! These revolutionary fancies you hold have blinded you to the reality of our world. Society is hierarchy! Without that hierarchy there would be only anarchy. We must preserve the status quo, maintain order. Things are done the way they are for reason. Every man must take his place and you have forgotten yours. Abandoned it."

"No, my place is here! It is you who are blind, to the suffering of others, to anyone who doesn't conform to your narrow view of what should or should not be! You are blind to how the world could be if we just fight for it, if we allow ourselves to believe in the potential beauty of the future, of progress and of change! It's because of people like you who turn blindly aside that children starve to death on the streets, you and your apathy are as guilty as those who commit crimes against their fellow human being, perhaps more so. Greater men than myself have fought for this cause, lost their lives for it, men who live on in the history and heart of France. Would you call them idealistic children as well?"

"And how do you expect to fight against this injustice now?” Aubry says, almost mocking as he steps forward. “You've already lost friends, brothers so you say, will you lead the rest of them to their deaths with your violence?"

Enjolras freezes for the barest moment before he feels the very same conviction he’d felt on the barricades flood him so hotly he’s certain his skin must be on fire.

“You have no right,” he says, eyes sparkling with fervor, more confident than he’s felt in weeks. “To speak of my friends.  My friends were unceasingly smart, passionate men who loved this cause as much as I do, who saw fit to select me as their leader through their own choice, who fought at the barricade of their own volition. Men like them, men like these who stand before you, they _are_ the future. Do you think any of us would have resorted to violence if it were not the only way to forge the path for peaceful progress? We long for a world without barricades, but that world does not yet exist! That is the world we are fighting for, and if we do nothing it will never come!”

“And are you the future, Rene?” Aubry asks, voice lowered but still emanating with cold wrath. “You, with your blood-stained hands? All those years teaching you to shoot simply a lesson in learning how to kill, I see.”

"Aubry, that is _enough_ ," Flora says swiftly, tempered anger in every word, a hand on her husband’s arm.

"You're wrong."

Valjean and Flora speak at the very same moment, and the room goes quiet.

"You're wrong." Valjean repeats. "Excuse me, monsieur, if I speak out of turn, but I was there. I fought at the barricade your son lead, and he is not an idealistic fool; he is a hero."

Aubry scoffs, turning away for a moment, running a hand into his hair.

"Chanvrerie was the last barricade standing, did you know that?" Valjean says, stepping towards Aubry, dropping his eyes. "Did you know he evacuated all he could when it seemed the barricade would be lost? He sent those with wives and children away, tried to save as many lives as possible. I have spoken to him, Monsieur Enjolras, about how much it ripped him apart that he had to slay those on the other side of the barricade because they are still his countrymen, but knew he had no other choice. Did you know..."

"He is a boy! A child!" Aubry roars. “He had no idea what he was doing.”

"Yes he did," Valjean counters calmly. “They all did. None of them ran into this situation unstudied or unprepared. The people did not rise, that’s true, and given the amount of social unrest it surprises me, but that was always the uncertain part of the puzzle, but these young men took the risk anyway, a risk to try and save their country, believed in the people, along with a great number of their fellows across Paris. One day, I firmly feel those people will rise, with the memories of all these brave revolutionaries and lives lost etched across their hearts.”

Enjolras watches in silence, Courfeyrac's hand on his elbow steadying him, as Valjean continues.

"He is no boy. He is the bravest young man I've yet met, challenged only by those comrades you see here, and those who died. Did you know he shielded our escape route with his own body? That is how he was shot."

"And now he is a cripple! A fugitive cripple, what chance does he stand?" Aubry hisses. His voice becomes suddenly softer as he continues, and finally, the crux of the matter is reached. "And I have lost a son. My only son and heir is dead, but stands before me a ghost."

"I am no cripple!" Enjolras cries, taking a step forward, without the cane, adrenaline doing to job of any measure of Laudadnum. "And I am not dead! Father, I am here, and I am no ghost."

Enjolras reaches out his hand to his father, hovering inches above his arm; he sees a moment here, sees the vulnerability in his father’s expression, the chance to make him see, the chance to make him understand.

Aubry glances at the hand, its tremor, for a long moment before steeling himself and meeting Enjolras' eye as Enjolras watches him visibly harden. "You might as well be," he says, his voice sharp and cold as ice shards in the dead of a Parisian winter. “Your mother and I have to tell everyone our only child, our intelligent, vivacious boy, is dead. We have to deal with their stares as they learn that not only are you dead, but see in the papers that you were shot by a police officer while on the run for high treason. We must live the rest of our lives under this twisted lie you’ve created, and I will not forgive you for your selfishness, your thoughtless actions when it comes to your very own blood relations. You stand here alive, and yet you are dead to me.”

Aubry holds Enjolras’ gaze for a long moment, and within that familiar, piercing gaze, Enjolras knows his father cannot fully mean his words, but they stab him nonetheless, twisting ferociously as his father stalks out of the room.

Enjolras feels the world reel around him, and is grateful for Courfeyrac's hands which guide him back to his chair.

"Oh, my boy, you're white as a sheet." His grandmother's hand presses against his forehead, but Enjolras pays her no mind, eyes on his mother.

Flora stands half turned towards the door through which her husband left, her face towards her son, as shocked and paralyzed as he feels, torn once again, between them. She loves his father, and he her, Enjolras knows; they, unlike so many of their peers married for that love, encouraged by Violet and Enjolras’ grandfather, yet looked down upon by Aubry’s long-line aristocratic parents, who did not like their son marrying the daughter of an American heiress and a French general who fought not just in the American revolution, but the French Revolution itself. Yet Flora has always been a proponent of her son’s cause, not just a republican sympathizer, but a republican herself, has always sensed, somehow, that Enjolras was not quite the average young man, and stood by him always, no matter how the thought of losing him tortured her.

Enjolras cannot apologize for who he is, but he wants to apologize for the pain he never meant to cause her, but finds he cannot speaks as he feels something well inside him, pressing against his skin, his father's departing words ring in his ears, wounding deeper than any slap, any bullet. His chest aches, eyes burning as he raises trembling fingers to his eyes, throat tightening painfully around a sob as the dam starts breaking, the dam he thought he had perfected so well. Quite suddenly, he is crying. Tears spill from overfull eyes, streaming in warm tracks down his cheeks, wetting his fingers as he tries to stem the flow, to wipe them away. But there is no disguising the anguish in the single sob which marks the final cracking of his marble facade.

His mother is beside him in a second, arms wrapping around his shoulders and for the first time since he was a child, he is unashamed to press his face against her chest and weep openly. Embarrassment creeps through his skin as he knows his friends look on, as Gavroche, who looks up to him so, gazes from his seat next to Cosette, but he cannot cease, not even if he tried with all his might, and the feeling is partly washed away by the fact that his friends are likely relieved to see him finally give in to his emotions. The sobs break forth, sending sharp, thudding pains through his chest and throat, small, pinprick slivers of glass spreading across his skin.

Enjolras' world shrinks to his mother's hands rubbing soothing circles on his back, her solidity in his arms, the smell of her toilette, the softness of her voice as it murmurs to him and he is transported to a mostly forgotten time of soft kisses goodnight and his hand in hers as they walk in the gardens of his childhood home. Unbidden and forever associated with soft fond memories are ones of his father; of being swung into the air and caught, happy childish laughter piercing a deeper man's chuckle, of the hours of riding, learning to shoot, of hours by candlelight, the only sound the crackle of the fire and soothing, hymn-like cadence of a voice reading aloud the stories he'd loved long ago.

The onslaught of memories triggers a wave of sadness, as real and as breath stopping as a wave of pain from his leg, and tears come afresh, unstoppable as the memories spin through time, through school, to bitter arguments and sharp words. His father's impassive, dispassionate expression as Enjolras asks about the children on the street, the men in clothes no more than rags, the women who wail and cry on the streets of Marseilles the few times they travel through poorer parts of the city. His father's derisive sneer as Enjolras quotes Rousseau and tries again, in vain to make him see. Arguments over what he chooses to do with his life, arguments over duty and honor, arguments over his politics, his opinions, the code to which he lives his life, the cause to which he has dedicated everything.

Those memories whirl away in a puff of colorful smoke, replaced by memories of the Corinthe and the Musain. He sees Joly’s slow, delighted smile as he pours over medical books with Combeferre, fully grasping a new concept, the anxiety ebbing away almost instantly. He sees Bossuet’s hand on Grantaire’s shoulder as he whispers a joke into his ear, watches Bossuet’s grin widen and reach his eyes as Grantaire laughs, _really_ laughs, the sound booming and echoing against the walls. He sees Courfeyrac’s eyes twinkle as he sits with Marius and Jehan, watching the two of them pour over poetry volumes, pieces of paper with lines of ink scratched messily across. He hears Bahorel’s booming voice as he good-naturedly debates a point with Feuilly, whose sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, voice alive with excitement as he speaks.

He sees Bahorel bayoneted, watches Gavroche’s horrified expression as he watches his hero die.

He hears Joly’s scream rip from his throat as Bossuet falls, killed by a piece of the barricade blown back by the canon.

He sees Joly himself fall, feels his own feet running across the wrecked paving stones to his friend, but he can do nothing, can only hold him for the minute or so he remains, a smile on his face as he touches Enjolras’ face and expires.

He sees Jehan fall once more, as he has countless times in his dreams.

He hears his own voice ringing in his ears, the sun rising over the barricade and nearly blinding him in it brightness.

_Here day embraces night._

_From all desolations faith gushes forth_.

_Until the earth is free._

He feels the pain strike him as the first bullet hits, then the second. He feels the sensation of his leg crumpling from under him, hears Javert’s harsh, biting tone in his ear, feels the inspector’s hands like iron on his cheeks, forcing the Laudanum down his throat, feels the cold knife to his throat, the mouth of the gun pressed to his temple. He sees the blood gushing forth from Isabelle’s wound, senses the life exiting her body, the light leaving her eyes.

He pulls back slightly from his mother’s embrace, and she takes hold of one of his hands and refusing to let go as he uses his free one to wipe his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he half-whispers, clearing his throat. “I’m so sorry, I…”

“No apologies from you,” Courfeyrac chides, interrupting him and squatting down next to his chair, tears shining in his own eyes. “We won’t allow it, will we Combeferre?”

“Certainly not,” Combeferre says from behind, placing two warm, comforting hands on his shoulders, an almost instant feeling of security flooding through Enjolras at the familiar touch. “Because there is nothing to apologize for, my friend.”

The feeling only grows as he sees Feuilly and Grantaire on his other side next to Violet, Marius, Cosette, Gavroche, and Valjean standing just behind his mother, encouraging smiles on their faces. Enjolras smiles slightly when Grantaire hesitantly reaches out to grasp his free hand for a solid moment, and Enjolras squeezes back, reassuring him that the touch was welcomed and wanted.  He meets Cosette’s eyes for a moment, a wispy memory forming in his mind of her brushing through his snarled hair on the day of his return from the Javert debacle, talking softly in his ear, look at Valjean, remembering their heartfelt conversation in the study, remembers Valjean’s unyielding efforts to bring him home. These two people have allowed all of them into their small family, have made them all a part of it, two chosen families merged together as one, and that comforts him immensely. His mother moves aside a bit as his grandmother leans down to his sitting level; she’s quite short, so it doesn’t take much effort, but she’s still a firebrand, so he supposes he comes by it naturally. She puts a gentler than normal hand on his face turning it carefully to look her directly in the eye.

“You are not a ghost to us,” she says firmly, never breaking Enjolras’ gaze. “This is hard, yes. This is difficult and painful and unprecedented. But we will find a way through, and we will soldier on. Together. Do you hear me, René?”

“Yes, gran’mere,” he says, feeling exhaustion puddle up in every crevice of his body. “I hear you. If it’s all right with everyone, I think I might like to lie down for a bit. I apologize profusely for this entire debacle, please try and enjoy your dessert. I…”

“I believe we have already spoken on the topic of apologies?” Courfeyrac answers, raising one eyebrow in a most splendid impression of Combeferre, who half-smiles in amusement.

“So we have,” Enjolras replies, taking his cane from his grandmother. “I shall try and improve on this.”

“So you had better,” Grantaire says, teasing lightly. “Or we shall see to it ourselves.”

“Of that I have no doubt, my friend,” Enjolras says, before turning to his mother. “Maman, would mind helping me upstairs?”

She obliges, and as they leave the others in the dining room and walk down the hall toward the main staircase which is closest to his room, there is no sign of his father.

Enjolras leans heavily on his cane, allowing his mother to wrap one arm around his waist, but trying to take all the weight himself as they slowly make their way up the stairs.

“Should we…worry?” Enjolras asks her through gritted teeth as a pain strikes him; it’s been less troublesome over the past day or so, but it’s still there, and stairs, he swears silently, are the bane of his existence.  “Granted this is an expansive home, but…”

“I don’t think there’s any cause for worry,” she tells him, breathing a sigh of relief as they reach the top and head toward the door to his bedroom. “He might be angry, but he won’t have stalked off anywhere far or unfamiliar, it’s not in his nature. He’s either out in the garden as it’s not yet dark, or he’s found the library, if there is one.”

“There is,” Enjolras informs her, releasing a breath as he sits gingerly down on his bed, lifting his leg up. “You can go to him, if you wish, Maman. I won’t resent you for it.”

“I’d like to be with you right now, mon ange,” she tells him, making use of the childhood nickname she’s scarcely used since he went to boarding school as an adolescent. “As much as I love your father, I am rather…displeased with him right now, to put it lightly, and do not currently think I might say anything productive, something of which he is certainly aware.”

She walks around and sits on the other side of the bed, arranging her skirts as elegantly as ever as she stretches her legs out, patting them in a gesture of asking him to lay his head in her lap as he’d often done when ill as a child.

“I’m fine,” he says, waving his hand.

“I don’t believe I said you weren’t,” she says, smiling wryly. “But indulge your mother a bit, won’t you? I can’t quite erase some of the images of what’s happened to you from my mind, and your presence eases that.”

“I don’t want you to worry. I’m not ill anymore,” he says, looking at her plaintively.

She looks at him unbelievingly, raising both eyebrows, fixing him with a gaze he knew well during his adolescence, and there’s a warning in her tone.

“Are you a mother?” she asks.

“Decidedly not.”

“Well, I am and my little boy almost died,” she says, reaching out to touch his cheek, voice tightening as she voices that horrific reality. “Twice. You were arrested and overdosed, and all I want is to hold my little boy and never let you go again, even though I know I can’t. I know that’s not plausible, I know you’re 25, nearly 26 years old and a grown man capable of leading a revolution and I cannot cage you in my arms forever, just imagine the fuss you’d make if I tried and I could never hold you back, but allow me a moment, won’t you? Before you slip through my fingers again?  You _were_ very ill, and I haven’t had nearly enough of a chance to worry and fuss, I’m only asking that small indulgence.”

Enjolras smiles, unable to deny her because upon her return home she will have to essentially bury him, will have to tell all of her friends he is dead, will in all likelihood have to tell all of his aunts and uncles he was killed if only to keep him as safe as possible, because people talk. Yet as distressed as she is, she does not blame him, does not resent him, is merely grateful for his life, knows that though massively changed, his life is still dedicated to revolution, to his cause, knows his heart beats with it, pumping his life’s blood through his veins. Nevertheless, he feels an acute pain of his own at causing her hurt.

He stretches out across the bed, careful with his leg as he lays his head in her lap. He closes his eyes as her fingers brush through his hair in continuous strokes, and he feels at least some of the tension melt away from his body.

“You know the last time I held you like this you were fourteen and had just gotten in an argument with your father?” she reminisces, hand migrating down to his injured shoulder, hovering just above it for a moment before tracing a trembling hand around the area she knows the bandage rests. “That’s more than ten years.”

“I know that this isn’t what you expected when you found out you were with child,” he tells her softly. “I know you didn’t expect me to live the life I lived _before_ I was a fugitive insurgent thought dead to the world. I know it couldn’t be what you wanted for me, or for you.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and for a moment, Enjolras fears she’s angry with him, fears the tears which threatened will come and there will no consoling her. He cannot bear to see her cry. He never could, really.

“You went into Marseille one day with your father,” she begins. “I think it was to go to the tailor’s shop. You returned after two hours or so, and I’ll never forget it: you dashed in the front door, hair all askew, distraught and looking for me. You’d seen some of the gamin stealing food from a market on the street, saw a policeman chase them down, and much to your father’s concern, you took some of the allowance in your pocket and chased after them, begging the cart owner to take your money to pay for their food. You were about seven or so.”

“I remember,” Enjolras says, quizzical, the memory as clear as the present moment. “Why does this come to mind?”

“Because I knew that day you were different,” she tells him. “I saw how deep your empathy ran, saw the fire in your eyes, and I knew that one day you would do something to help those people, would do something to change the face of this country. How could I ever be disappointed in you for that? You are a beautiful exception to so many people walking around on this earth and as hard as it will be for me to figuratively bury you, to mourn you while you live, the fact is that you _are_ alive and here with me still.”

“But I didn’t make a difference,” he says, hearing his father’s words in his ears once more, the words telling him he’d failed, that he’d led his friends to their deaths. He knows those things aren’t true, he knows he’s been trying, day by day, to put himself together again, and yet his father’s voice cuts through his confidence. Normally it wouldn’t do so, it hasn’t in years, but now, in this most vulnerable time, it leaves an impact.

“You fought for something,” Flora insists. “You fought for something with every breath. You got down into the lives of those you fought for, you learned from them, you worked with them, and your words inspired them, of that I have no doubt. The barricade may have failed this time, but you know not just how many people you inspired for the future, the seeds you planted. You lead an entire group of young men, they chose you. You were willing to sacrifice everything, and you nearly did, darling. You still have that belief, I know you do. Your father, he…he has so much feeling in him, as you do, but he was never able to find a way to channel it, was never able to break free of any kind of societal norms, even if he wanted to. Where he is narrow, you have broadened. As difficult and frightening as this situation is, you will find a way to keep going. We all will.”

“I only wish he would actually listen,” Enjolras replies in a frustrated whisper. “It was not my intention to be selfish in fighting for this; I wasn’t searching for some kind of glory. I hear and feel the desperation and the outcry of the people around me and it was time for _action_ , I just…”

“I know,” Flora finishes for him. “Your father is growing older and set in his ways,” she continues with chagrin. “But his outburst was driven by emotion, not his usual logic. He was certainly anxious enough to come see you. There will be a time to speak with him, I believe. But first I expect he needs to straighten out his thoughts. And his attitude.”

Enjolras chuckles at that, feeling his eyes flutter closed under his mother’s touch.

“Is it the family status he cares for so much?” Enjolras says, words heavy with exhaustion. “I understand how hard it is for him, for you, to have to pronounce me dead, and I wish I could take that away from you. But I feel as if he is simply embarrassed that it looks as if I went and got myself killed recklessly in a scuffle. He used to care about something other than appearance, and now it seems as if he cares for nothing else.”

“He does care,” Flora says without pause. “I have seen it with my own eyes, and recently. When I told him you’d nearly died of infection he cried for a long time, broke down in a way I haven’t seen in years. He’d only just gotten my word that you had survived the barricade, at that point. He was utterly distraught, darling.”

“Then why can he not simply say that rather than attack me first?” Enjolras asks, feeling once more like an adolescent. “Why is it so impossible to have a simple conversation? I cannot be anything other than who I am, but at this point I’m not expecting him to understand me as you do, merely to accept or leave it well enough alone. Is that a great deal to ask?”

“No,” Flora says, tracing a finger across his cheek as if to lure him into sleep. “No it is not. But he will never walk away from you forever; he just… doesn’t know how to show you that.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, finding himself at a strange loss for words. His mother’s fingers travel over his face, smoothing the faint lines of pain, closing his eyes when he stubbornly tries to keep them open and watch her face in turn, looking down on him

Enjolras only realizes he’s fallen asleep when he hears a soft knock at the door. He shifts, starting to sit up, but is only pressed back down by his mother.

“Hush darling, it’s Combeferre,” she murmurs.

Enjolras relaxes a bit, smiling at Combeferre as he sits down on the bed with them, smiling in amusement at Enjolras’ position in his mother’s lap.

“As you are aware, I’m a bit of a worrier and wanted to see how you were,” Combeferre says. “And I saw Monsieur Enjolras, by the way,” he adds, looking up at Flora. “He’s sitting in the garden.”

“As expected,” Flora replies, catching Enjolras’ eye. “Thinking, no doubt. As he ought to be.”

Combeferre looks back at Enjolras expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“I’m all right,” Enjolras says, continuing at Combeferre’s disbelieving expression. “I’m better. I should apparently shed tears more often, it is rather relieving.” It’s half of a joke, but it’s far more true than false, he thinks, but switches the concern around swiftly enough with a critical look at Combeferre himself. “You look tired still. You should rest, and my family has arrived to fuss in your place so you should go to bed early,” He fixes Combeferre with a rather muted, tired version of his best glare, thinking it’s likely not entirely effective in the moment.

Combeferre chuckles, shaking his head.

“If only that worked so well on you,” he teases.

“I have been a far better patient than usual,” Enjolras protests, watching his mother smile at their exchange.

Combeferre raises an eyebrow, “You have been _slightly_ better behaved, I will give you that.” He says, looking down his nose, over his glasses at Enjolras.

Flora laughs softly, rearranging Enjolras’ hair, “We must have a discussion, Combeferre, once you’ve rested some; I’m most keen to discover who has had a harder time with my son here, I could tell you stories, as could my mother…”

“Thank you, Maman, I’m not sure that’s really called for…” Enjolras objects, sitting up slowly.

“Stubborn, I imagine?” Combeferre asks, teasing. “Always insisted there were better things to do?”

“Quite,” Flora says, chuckling again. “Felt it perfectly reasonable to go out horse riding after one day’s worth of bed rest from a fever.”

Enjolras feels his cheeks color, but laughs regardless because his mother’s laughter is contagious, before fixing Combeferre with a severe look.

“That is rather enough from you. I do not want you exhausting yourself, it is already evident how tired you are and I don’t want you falling ill, and doctors, Joly most certainly aside, make the worst patients and you are certainly no exception if you happen to be in the middle of something important when you fall ill.”

Combeferre puts up a hand, smiling in understanding. “Point taken, my friend. If it will make you feel more at ease, I shall retire immediately, if only to set a good example. Courfeyrac was already pestering me as well, so I suppose it is nearly a mandate.”

“I should say so,” Enjolras grumbles. “Can’t have you getting ill from exhaustion alone, I won’t stand for it.”

“Ah,” Combeferre says, mock-saluting at Enjolras. “The words of the chief we all love so well. You sound more like yourself, and it makes me glad. But all right, I’m off to rest. Which you should do as well.”

“It’s a pact,” Enjolras says, pressing Combeferre’s hand for a moment, feeling the emotion gathering between them, tangible. “Where is everyone else?”

“Courfeyrac convinced Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius, and Cosette into a game of cards, I think,” Combeferre tells him. “Gavroche is with them, though I fear Courfeyrac and Grantaire may be teaching him to gamble, though I think he may outwit them more than they bargained for. Monsieur Fauchelevent is in his study, and your grandmother is…”

“Here, actually,” Violet says, appearing in the doorway. “I couldn’t stay away for very long. Far too nosy.”

“I’ll take that as my cue to go and rest,” Combeferre says, smiling at Violet and Flora as he goes. “I trust Enjolras will be perfectly well tended in your hands.”

“Thanks to all your hard work young man,” Violet says fondly, going to sit down on the edge of Enjolras’ bed.  “I know from experience he is hard work when he’s not feeling well.”

“Grandmere…” Enjolras begins, but his mother comes to his rescue despite her earlier teasing.

“Yes, thank you Combeferre,” Flora says in reply, one arm still around her son as if she can’t quite let go of him just yet. “For everything.”

“My pleasure,” Combeferre says, catching Enjolras’ eye one last time before leaving the three of them alone.

“Couldn’t stay away, hmm?” Enjolras asks, teasing his grandmother as her eyes rove over his face, examining him.

“None of your sass,” Violet says, tapping his cheek. “Your mother might claim it is entirely inherited from me, but I shan’t stand for it being used against me.”

Enjolras almost snorts in amusement: his grandmother has always been mischievous and he got away with far more in her presence as a boy than he ever did with either of his parents.

Violet softens, the lines around her eyes crinkling as she smiles at him in worry. “Are you quite all right?” she asks.

“I will be,” he answers. “I’m just a bit tired.”

“Sleep, I think,” Flora says. “Maman, help me get him under the covers?”

“I can do that myself,” Enjolras says, but both women only tut at him, and he sees Bahorel’s face in his head, hears his contagious laughter ringing in his ears at the idea of him being ordered about by his mother and grandmother.

_Seems like advice from anyone in your family is an order, eh, Enjolras?_

After a few moments he’s situated in bed, Violet and Flora settled in chairs on the same side in order to give him room to stretch out his leg and shoulder, which Combeferre says will both need to start some rehabilitation soon, to prevent more muscle atrophy. He feels his mother’s hand on his face, his grandmother’s hand in his, and after a few minutes, sleep overcomes him before he even realizes he’s lost in dreams, that for once, despite his fight with his father, are sweet.

 


	31. Fathers, Sons, and Friendships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! special thanks to my wonderful beta, ariadneslostthread, who was vital in helping me figure out both Aubry and the new parental figures you’ll be meeting in this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

Enjolras knows it’s early when he awakes just by the way the light barely filters through the cracked open window, but he has never been talented at falling back asleep once he has awoken, so he sits up feeling the familiar stiffness in his limbs. He’s just reaching over for a glass of water when he hears it.

A creak. The sound of his door opening ever so slightly and then snapping back .Confused as to whether or not he’s truly lost his mind or someone is outside his door, he calls out.

“Hello?”

Gavroche’s face appears as the door swings slowly open. He looks uncharacteristically sheepish, shy almost, a quality Enjolras has never seen in the ten-year-old. Given all the child has been through, perhaps the sudden change in temperament is unsurprising, but Gavroche is not a normal child; he has barely known parents, love or caring, and from an early age life has demanded of him a peculiar combination of maturity and freedom of movement. He is utterly irreverent, a wild, untamed spirit. He’s almost a wisp on the wind; just when you think you have him in your grasp, he slips away, like Paris itself.

But now he has been plucked from his life, his domain, and thrust, into better circumstances yes, but into a world entirely unfamiliar and not his own nevertheless. Even Gavroche, with all his street smarts and guile has had to adjust to this new life, but he is never shy. Always intrepid, always bold, he is bright and intelligent, absorbing and trying to understand this way of life in the same way he always had the politics that many would have considered over his head. It is strange for Enjolras to think of the hours Gavroche, and all of his friends, spend away from him while he’s been mostly trapped inside this bed, living lives to which he feels only a periphery part, and the longing to be a part of the daily routine of this house, grows stronger. First this house, then hopefully, when it is less reckless for him to go out in public, the city of Avignon beyond the grounds of this place. But it is stranger still to see the hesitancy on Gavroche’s young face, a longing he is wary to voice plain in the way he looks at Enjolras.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I thought I heard you awake when I was walking down the hall, but then I wasn’t too sure.” His accent is as strong as ever, but his oft used slang has fallen into disuse from spending time with them rather than his fellow gamins. There were two younger boys who almost always followed in Gavroche’s wake, Enjolras remembers, as if Gavroche had taken them under his wing.

“As you can see I am awake, though only just,” Enjolras says, gesturing the little boy forward. “Come in, keep me company.”

“Really?” Gavroche says, brightening.

“Really,” Enjolras echoes. “I’m frightful at going back to sleep once I’m woken up, so you’ve saved me the trouble of amusing myself as I now have you to talk with.”

Gavroche hops up, making himself at home on the bed next to Enjolras, still in his nightshirt. It’s an odd sight, and not one Enjolras has had much time to consider because of everything going on, because of his own illness, everyone’s struggles. Gavroche had been safe, and for the present that had been enough, perhaps even for Gavroche himself, but now, as Enjolras looks at the clean as a whistle boy in front of him, dressed in his pristine yet simple dressing gown, he cannot help but wonder at Gavroche’s adjustment to this. It is a far cry from his usual tattered clothes held together by bare threads, dirt, and probably a little bit of pure hope, the near permanent smudge of city dirt on his cheek, hair tousled beyond measure.

“You’re up early,” Enjolras comments, trying to ease into a conversation.

 “Dream,” Gavroche says, curious but noncommittal just yet. “But I know everyone’s been having ‘em. Feuilly said he had, but I know the dreams aren’t real, even though they feel it sometimes.”

Enjolras watches Gavroche reach into the pocket of his dressing gown, pulling out a piece of parchment with colors and words scrawled across in very familiar handwriting, loopy but neat and completely legible even to an undiscerning eye. It’s Feuilly’s handwriting.

“He helped me make this for you a few days ago, when I was worried,” Gavroche admits. “I painted it, drew the flags, but Feuilly did the writing, seein’ as I can’t yet.”

There’s vulnerability in Gavroche’s eyes, strong affection mixed with a hint of distrust that can only be spawned from the life he’s led, kicked out onto the streets as a toddler by parents who didn’t care about him, left to fend completely for himself. He wonders at the qualification of them all, responsible for this child; they have little experience between them, bar Valjean, and perhaps there is no precedent for this mismatched, but treasured family. What do they know of raising a traumatized, neglected and possibly abused child? He reassures himself that they are a better hope than the streets of Paris.

He hands the piece of paper over and Enjolras sees French flags drawn in a ten-year-old’s hand in each corner, red squiggles surrounding words in the center ‘Feel better, Enjolras!’

“Thank you,” Enjolras breathes. “Thank you very much. Quite nice flags too, much better than I could manage.”

Gavroche scoffs, but he’s grinning in an embarrassed yet still pleased way, hands twisting in his nightshirt in his lap.

“It’s true,” Enjolras presses. “I have a talent with words, with writing and speaking; it was something I shared with Prouvaire. But drawing has never been my forte. Combeferre and Joly could, from drawing anatomy I expect. Grantaire, of course, is excellent but won’t believe a one of us. Feuilly as well, obviously. Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Bossuet, and myself were all rather atrocious.”

It’s silent between them for a few moments as Enjolras considers the card, unable to keep from smiling despite the tension tensing his muscles as he thinks of his father. His own forays into drawing anything other than a map have been so long ago: he’d been a child and his father’s perplexed, but proud expression bring thoughts to mind of facing him again, the disappointment in his expression where long ago there’d been pride. He thinks of trying, once more, to make him see, before he lets go of the possibility entirely.

“Sorry you’re fighting with your father,” Gavroche offers. “But your Maman and Grand-mere are really nice ladies,” he says, slightly wistful, and Enjolras’ heart clenches, outraged at Gavroche’s parents for abandoning their son, their smart, independent son who is full of promise if only he was given the chance. He wants to give Gavroche that chance the world denies him, he realizes, because Gavroche deserves that opportunity, deserves the opportunity denied to countless children in France because they are forced to work or live on the streets rather than sitting in the schoolrooms of a public education system Combeferre dreams of.

“They most certainly are,” Enjolras replies. “I’m very grateful for them. They keep me in my place, when I need it.”

Gavroche laughs when Enjolras raises an eyebrow, then turns serious again, morose, almost.

“Have you always fought with your father?” he questions, looking down at Enjolras hands’ folded in his lap.

“No,” Enjolras says, another rush of fond memories coursing through him, marred black and burnt at the edges by fights and ugly words. “No we were still quite close when I was your age, even a little older.”

“He doesn’t like the revolution then?”

“I don’t think it’s even that, not just that, at least. It is complicated,” Enjolras answers, beginning to think about it properly for the first time away from his anger and hectic times when there was so much else demanded of him to think on. “He wanted me to carry on the family name, to marry and produce an heir, I suppose. My political leanings made it clear very early on I was never going to settle for staying in Marseilles and accepting the way things were. And he could never understand that. In his mind I was throwing my life away. I’m dead, to all his intents and purposes. He’d have me take his place, not fighting on barricades and shooting guns and committing treason against the government.” He smiles, grimly, as the thought of treason, the thought of raising their voices, of physically standing up for the freedom of the French people, fills him with a strange excitement dulled by his recent melancholy but never entirely lost to him. He’d never felt so alive as he did when speaking, when preparing for the barricade, when meeting new groups of students and workers, and in the beginning, looking at the newly built barricade, a physical symbol of their fight, before all had fallen into blood, death, and chaos.

 “That’s just who you are,” Gavroche says, matter of fact. “I once heard Bahorel say that you were the face of the fight itself, you loved it so much, wanted to help kids like me so much, and I figure he’s right. _Was_ right,” he corrects himself, smile faltering with the reminder that Bahorel is no longer with them. “People listen to you, Enjolras. I don’t see why that’s so hard for your father to understand. Seems pretty simple to me.”

“Neither do I. And that is complicated also, but your faith in me means a great deal.”

Enjolras smiles fully now, an idea popping into his mind.

“How about you go get some of those books you’d saved and we can look over them together,” Enjolras suggests. “We’ve got a couple of hours before everyone else is up.”

“Now?” Gavroche questions, standing up again and bouncing back and forth on his heels in excitement.

“Right now,” Enjolras affirms watching the boy dash off with no need for further encouragement.

That could have been him, he muses, had he been born to different parents or different circumstance. He could have been Gavroche, a little boy so smart but with nowhere to go, no place to learn.

He’s resolved to change that, and as he watches Gavroche re-enter, the same light in his eyes as Enjolras had in his own when his father read to him as a child, he’s also resolved to speak to his father once more.

* * *

Around two hours later, and around the time Enjolras knows Combeferre usually awakes, Gavroche mentions he’s hungry, excitement at their lesson still in his eyes. It would take a while certainly, but Gavroche was already catching on incredibly quickly, his intelligence and eagerness obvious. Gavroche makes his way downstairs to the kitchen, hoping to get the pastries fresh out of the oven, no doubt, and Enjolras walks down the hallway to Combeferre’s room, the echo of his cane muffled on the lush, if faded carpets. He knocks lightly, enough to alert Combeferre if he’s awake but not too loud in case he’s still sleeping, as the man sleeps like the dead.

“Come in,” Combeferre calls, voice slightly hoarse as it usually is in the early morning, but he is very clearly awake.

Enjolras enters, looking at his friend sitting up in bed, brown hair askew from sleep.

“I thought that sounded like your knock,” Combeferre says.

“You know the way my knock sounds?” Enjolras asks, bemused.

“Your step as well, I believe,” Combeferre replies, scooting over so that Enjolras might sit next to him. “Courfeyrac’s too. You can tell a few things about a person by the way they knock, how they walk. The little things make us up.”

“Hmmm,” Enjolras says, lips quirking upward. “You are right in that.”

“You look very awake,” Combeferre says, curiosity piqued. “Have you been up long?”

“A couple of hours, actually,” Enjolras tells him. “Gavroche was outside my door. We talked, and I gave him his first impromptu reading lesson.”

“At six in the morning?”

“At six in the morning,” Enjolras repeats. “Seemed a good a time as any. I promised him, after all, and so much has happened that his lessons keep getting neglected. He’s so bright, catches on so quickly. It is a crime he should have missed out on all educational opportunities which are only reserved for those of us lucky enough to have them.”

Enjolras watches Combeferre’s smile spread, reaching his eyes.

“What?” Enjolras questions.

“I have not heard you talk quite like this since the barricade,” he says, a bit wistful. “It is good to hear you sound like yourself.”

“I might sound myself but you do not look yourself,” Enjolras says, worrying spiking in his stomach as he considers Combeferre’s countenance, seeing the pale purple smudges under his friend’s eyes that are so similar to his own when he looks in the mirror. He sees how pale Combeferre is, the way he rubs at his temples, his general weariness. “You look almost as if you have fallen ill. Are you taking cold?”

“I don’t believe so, no,” Combeferre reassures him. “I think I am simply…”

“Exhausted,” Enjolras finishes for him. “Simple it may be, but it is true nonetheless. You should rest today.”

“You are right,” Combeferre says. “But there is so much going on…though if I am coming down with cold you’d do best to avoid me, you should not be falling ill in your condition…”

“No arguments,” Enjolras says, rarely interrupting his friend. “You would tell me to do the same, and we will all be fine if you take a day off. Grantaire is faring much better, and I am slowly on the mend. More mobile, certainly. And I cannot simply abandon you if you do take cold, I’ll be fine. ”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says with a small sigh, shaking his head slightly. “I cannot allow you to fall ill if I can prevent it. You cannot take anything about your condition lightly. You are not at your normal strength and it will be a while before you are even close,” Combeferre reaches across the bed and covers Enjolras' hand. “You were so close to death that night, Enjolras. Your life was a splitting thread. You, who are normally so full of life it seems about to burst through you…" he breaks off, pressing his fingers to his lips briefly before blinking and shaking his head to dispel the tightening of his throat. "Before everything with,” he pauses once again before Javert’s name, a tremulous fury in his tone. “That man and the prison, all of the stress that put on your still healing body, your emotions. We can take no more risks, not until your strength is more.”

“Combeferre…”

“I said goodbye to you,” Combeferre interjects softly, stirring half-torn memories in Enjolras’ head of Combeferre sitting beside his bed, voice shaky where it is normally firm, tears fogging up his spectacles. He removes them, dashing the tears away with his fingers and pinching the bridge of his nose before continuing. “I kept the barest hope that you might survive, but it seemed so uncertain. But you, my dearest friend,” he says fondly, tapping Enjolras lightly on the shoulder. “Somehow you survived anyway.”

Enjolras wraps his good arm around Combeferre’s shoulder and Combeferre rests his head upon it, comforted by Enjolras’ warmth, but the definite feeling of his pulse beating beneath his skin. They sit like that for a few solid minutes, silent but fully in the moment, fully appreciating the fact that they are both alive, a thing which neither of them takes for granted. Enjolras feels Combeferre release a breath, feels his friend’s muscles relax just a bit, some of the tension relieved.

“I remember you speaking to me just before I awoke,” Enjolras says. “I remember you saying ‘we’ve lost enough, how can we lose you too? How can I lose you?’ Is that what you said?”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, sitting up again and taking Enjolras’ hands, a signal that he means for Enjolras to look at him directly when he speaks. “And this, all of this is why I worry so. I don’t want to come close to that again. We all die someday of course, but now is not your time, Enjolras. Of that I’m certain. You are much better than you were, of course, but we still must try and keep you from falling ill, and we will need to get started on your rehabilitation soon.”

“What sort of rehabilitation?” Enjolras questions, curious, eager to relieve the stiffness in his shoulder and leg that he hopes will make it much easier to get around.

“Just some simple exercises at first,” Combeferre replies, smiling again at the enthusiasm in Enjolras’ voice. “I’ll need to consult a few of the texts my parents sent in their package to completely refresh my memory. We will start very slowly.”

“It will be painful?” Enjolras asks, direct but uneasy.

Combeferre winces. “Yes, but it will fade as time goes on, as your shoulder and leg regain strength. It will also help me assess any permanent damage done to your leg.”

“You believe there will be permanent damage?” Enjolras asks, a swell of fear emerging in his stomach. He’s never truly considered the permanence of these injuries; he’s been so wrapped up in the moment as of late, running from Javert, hiding from Javert, thinking on his friends, on how to protect them and urge them forward, thinking on the past, on the friends they’ve lost, on the barricade, on how to adjust to being a fugitive. Until a few days ago he was so ensconced in pain that he didn’t dare focus on the injuries themselves, only the pain radiating forth from their centers.

“With your shoulder, no,” Combeferre answers, honest. “With your leg, I am not sure. You may require the cane for a long period, but I do not think you will require it forever. But there may always be an ache there after strenuous physical exertion. Only time will tell, and I may want to consult with a practicing physician in Avignon, just as a second opinion.”

Joly’s name rests between them in silent memorial, the second opinion Combeferre always counted on, the second opinion he no longer has, and Enjolras feels the familiar hollowness in his chest once again. One day these wounds will be only scars, and yet they will forever remind him of his friends, of their barricade, of the revolution he will never stop fighting until his dying breath. Somehow, this sweeping feeling of melancholy, this surge in self-identity, bolsters his desire to speak with his father, boosts his confidence.

“Second opinion on what, may I ask?” Courfeyrac’s voice asks from the other side of the doorway, his curious smile visible through the half-open door, Feuilly, Grantaire, and Marius close behind him.

“A second opinion on Enjolras’ injuries,” Combeferre says, shaking his head affectionately. “Come in then, nosy. The lot of you.”

Courfeyrac makes himself at home on the end of the bed and the others gather around the bed. Grantaire picks up Enjolras’ cane and examines it, tossing it back and forth between his hands; Feuilly watches him, amused, before his eyes flicker up to Enjolras, with whom he shares a smile; Marius sits tentatively down next to Courfeyrac, whose eyes flicker back and forth between Combeferre and Enjolras, as if he knows their entire conversation simply by gazing at them for a few moments. His eyes catch on Enjolras’ shoulder then trail down to his leg, and his expression grows serious, his hand hovering over the place he knows the bullet pierced his skin. At a nod from Enjolras he places his hand very gently upon it, causing no pain.

“These wounds you have, they are marks of a hard fought battle,” Courfeyrac begins, and Enjolras knows by his tone that Courfeyrac is subtly encouraging him for his talk with his father. “They are also the marks of a ferocious friend who received these protecting all of us here in this room with you. Don’t you dare forget that.”

“Well said,” Feuilly chimes in, catching Combeferre’s smile, his own growing.

“Very much agreed,” Marius says, meeting Enjolras’ eyes with the unfettered sincerity.

As a show of support, Grantaire quietly nudges Enjolras in the ribs with the cane he still holds, a winking in a fashion very reminiscent of Bahorel, and Enjolras cannot help but smile himself.

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, standing again. “We all came in searching for the two of you because we are famished and thought you might like to join us.”

“Combeferre is to rest today,” Enjolras says instantly. “So I think…”

“He would most appreciate it if we brought it up to him,” Courfeyrac finishes with a nod.

“There’s really no need,” Combeferre tries, but in one simultaneous moment Enjolras glares at him and Courfeyrac pushes him back down against the pillows, and the good doctor relents, very obviously knowing he cannot win this argument.

“Don’t you know that kind of advice from Enjolras is an order?” Courfeyrac teases. “Do lay back down Combeferre, you look exhausted. We’ll be back up in a few minutes.”

“Actually,” Enjolras says, feeling his hand clench around the cane as Grantaire hands it back to him. “I believe I’m going to go and speak to my father. Before I lose this nerve all of you have built up in me.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “You are practically made of nerve, it’s not possible for you to permanently lose it, only find where you misplaced it.”

Enjolras makes his way slowly to the door, cane thudding dully on the carpet, but he manages it without assistance, turning around once more and smiling at all of his friends before his eyes land on Combeferre, who nods at him with encouragement, the moment between them the contented twinkle in his eyes. Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief at seeing it, at seeing Combeferre look far better than he had when Enjolras first knocked on the door. He hears their chatter in his ears until he reaches the stairs, and then all is quiet aside from the thoughts inside his head. He’d taken a small dose of Laudanum this morning, so getting down the stairs, though still painful, is not nearly as excruciating as it has been. He and Combeferre have tried to perfect the dosage so that the haziness is as minimal as possible, though after this he suspect he might need to rest for a while. He’s learning his own body very well, unable to ignore it as he has in the past, both because of the injuries, the infection, and his friends’ worried looks, and tries to gage his pain and weariness levels as best he can. He thinks of checking the library first, but for his leg’s sake checks the small parlor overlooking the garden, wondering if his father might be there.

Enjolras’ instincts turn out right; his father sits in a chair facing the window, the sun casting him in the soft yellow morning light as it glints off his dimming blonde hair, bathing his face in stripes of light and dark. Aubry doesn’t see him at first, and Enjolras observes him for a moment, noting the lines around his eyes that weren’t present three years ago, the more pronounced streaks of gray, his hunched posture as he rests his chin in his hands, not the same posture of a man who always taught his son to sit up straight, whether in a chair or on horseback, a habit Enjolras still keeps. As if he senses his son’s presence, Aubry looks up after a minute or two, turning to look at Enjolras. There’s no malice in his expression, but there’s defensiveness, curiosity.

“Your leg pains you,” he says, voice hoarse from sleep or perhaps lack of it. “Sit. Please.”

Just the barest edge of desperation in his voice, desperation Enjolras has scarcely ever heard there. Enjolras complies, clenching his teeth against the pain that comes when he switches from standing to sitting or vice versa. He watches in surprise as his father pushes the ottoman toward him, hand very nearly coming into contact with Enjolras’ leg as he lifts it up, but he pulls them back at the last second, as if he’s afraid Enjolras will object to the touch. Enjolras settles into the chair, glancing back up at his father, who looks back, considering him with a far softer expression than he had the previous evening. Perhaps it’s the fact that they’re both in dressing gowns, perhaps it’s the comforting morning light showcasing their vulnerabilities, or perhaps it’s something else entirely, something deeper, something yet unspoken. Enjolras leans his cane against the chair, unconsciously reaching for his hand and massaging the center of his palm where it aches from leaning on the hard wood of the cane, his wrist throbbing from all the weight put upon it.

“Your hand hurts as well?” his father asks, finally speaking. He’s gruff still, hesitant, but clearly genuine.

Enjolras nods. “Combeferre says it’s normal, part of adjusting to using the cane, though it may ache a bit for as long as I use the cane.”

“And how long is that?” Aubry asks, peering down at Enjolras’ hand.

“I’m not completely sure,” Enjolras admits, moving to rub his wrist now, rotating it to work out the tightness in his arm. “I may need the cane for a long period until I regain the proper strength in my leg. Combeferre wants to possibly get a second opinion on how extensive the muscle damage was.”

“It’s the same wrist you nearly broke once,” Aubry points out, taking a sudden and unexpected turn into nostalgia. “You came off and…”

“Hit the fence,” Enjolras finishes with a weary smile. “I remember. I was six, I think? Grand-mere forbade me from riding for nearly a week, and she shouted at you, as I recall.”

“She did indeed,” Aubry says, grimacing. “Thought encouraging you to gallop was foolhardy. Perhaps it was.”

He stops, eyes running over his son’s form with wistful eyes before he rises from his chair and sits gingerly on the ottoman, internally startling Enjolras, who has to stop himself from visibly jolting. Aubry looks down at the hand Enjolras still massages, partly from pain, partly from the memory of his sprained wrist, then back up at his son’s face, a question in his eyes, a request.  Enjolras lets go of his hand, hesitantly holding it out to his father, unsure if he gaged the situation correctly. Aubry takes it, his fingers warm and dry when they make contact with Enjolras’ skin. Enjolras’ fingers twitch involuntarily at the tickling sensation on his palm and Aubry stops for a moment, fear and vulnerability cracking through the stoic ice in his eyes. Enjolras gives him a fraction of a nod, afraid of breaking the moment if he moves too fast or too much. Gently, slowly, Aubry runs his thumbs over Enjolras' palm, over the heel of his hand where the pressure from the cane is greatest, down his fingers, then moves back and encircles his wrist.

Enjolras' breath catches as he realizes this is the first time his father has touched him since arriving aside from the accidental brush of their fingers yesterday, the first time they have touched in over three years and longer yet since anything this tender passed between them. His hand trembles in his father’s grasp, a powerful rush of emotion hitting him so hard he almost thinks it might very well knock him unconscious; anger, frustration, desperation, sadness so deep that it forms a bubble in his chest and bursts, sending a fierce melancholy rushing through every crevice of his body. His father is broader than he, but his hands are like Enjolras' own; long, delicately boned, with soft, fleshy palms, and it strikes Enjolras how different they are to Valjean's broad, callused palms. Aubry finishes his ministrations and slowly pulls his hands away, fingers trailing over his son’s palm a final time. He looks up again, lips curving upward, and Enjolras sees they share the same melancholy smile. The invisible wall appears between them again, thinner than before but still present, because Enjolras is no longer six-years-old and Aubry no longer the young father encouraging his son to gallop off into the sunset. They are trapped here, in their different beliefs, their different experiences, their different ideologies, their shared past trying its best to bind them together with wispy, ripping thread.

“I came to speak to you,” Enjolras tries, though he realizes that’s likely quite obvious. “Are you amenable? I’m not very interested in having another shouting match.” His voice is kind as he speaks, but it’s still firm; he does not want to fight, he wants to communicate to try, one final time to come to even the shadow of an understanding between them.

“My temper and my feelings got the better of me last night,” Aubry says, eyes darting back down to the carpet. “Normally I would not behave in such a way.”

_In front of others_ , Enjolras nearly says, but bites his tongue. He is better than that retort, and truth be told, most of his disagreements with his father were fought in harsh whispers and burning words, in long conversations resulting in slammed doors and the maddening desire to just _understand_ , intermixed with a few explosive shouting matches.

“You have to know that I didn’t do any of this simply to hurt you, or to embarrass you,” Enjolras says leaning forward and closer to his father, who still sits on the ottoman. “I didn’t do it to defy you or prove you wrong or because it was some childish flight of fancy. It’s who I am. It’s who my friends are. I wasn’t playing at revolution; I still believe in it even now, after everything. More.”

Aubry sighs, but it is not an exasperated sound. Instead it emanates that very clear desire to understand, but the look in his eyes tells Enjolras that he still falls short, the ghosts of the life he imagined for his son clouding his eyes rather than facing the actual reality.

“I thinks perhaps I lost you long ago,” Aubry whispers, voice rough with a number of emotions threaded together with determination to keep steady. “But now I feel I have lost you again in an entirely different way. I don’t know how to get you back. I don’t know if I can.”

The words cut deep into Enjolras’ heart, and were he less confident in the rightness of his cause, in the surety of his deepest desires and visions for the future, guilt might have overcome him at the pain he hears in his father’s voice. As it is, the feeling pinches sharply at him for a few moments before retreating back into the recesses of his mind. They have hurt each other, the two of them, but Enjolras will not give up who he is to soothe ruffled feathers. He can only try to make it known to his father that he is still welcome in his life if they can manage to make some sort of amends.

“I cannot give you back the boy you knew,” Enjolras says. “That boy is a part of me, of course, but that boy has grown into a man. A man who cannot be anything other than himself.”

“I don’t know that man,” Aubry says, looking back up at him. “I don’t know you.”

“No,” Enjolras says. “You don’t. But you could, if you tried. I am willing to try. Not to change myself, but to try again to have a relationship with you. I never _wanted_ to cease being on speaking terms with you.”

“Yet you did not try these past years,” Aubry says, snapping slightly and then looking as if he regrets his words almost immediately.

“You told me not to speak to you further unless I changed my politics and my person. I couldn’t do that.” Enjolras feels the anger rise to the surface, trying to keep himself calm.

“And you chose that particular time to listen to me?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t comply when it came to changing myself. But this had to do with you and your desire to speak with me. I will not force my company where it is not wanted,” Enjolras says, feeling the memories of that day push themselves once more to the front of his mind. When his father doesn’t respond, Enjolras speaks again, softer. “Would you be here if you did not want to try again? Or did you only come to tell me how disappointed you are? If so please tell me now.”

Even before he ceases talking Enjolras knows that isn’t true just from the look in his father’s eyes, from remembering his mother’s voice telling him of Aubry’s tears upon her return home and learning that his son had nearly died. Out of the corner of his eye Enjolras sees Valjean descend the stairs and meets his eyes over the top of Aubry’s head, lips lifting in a tight smile that Valjean returns. Aubry, noticing the exchange, turns around and looks at Valjean with an expression Enjolras cannot quite decipher, but there is something akin to jealousy within it. He turns back around to answer Enjolras’ last question, but before he can utter a word there is a knock at the door. Valjean moves to answer, pausing for a moment to look out of the glass panes around the front door, no doubt remembering the last time they’d received an unexpected visitor. He frowns, looking completely bewildered, before opening the door, a voice almost immediately pouring through.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent?” the brown haired man on the other side says, sweeping off his hat, and Enjolras thinks that he has Courfeyrac’s eyes. “Are you he? My son…Marcel de Courfeyrac, we received a letter from him at this address.”

“Yes, monsieur he…” Valjean begins, but Courfeyrac himself emerges from the kitchen, his voice a smidge more high-pitched than normal.

“Père?” Courfeyrac asks, stopping short, eyes darting toward the woman just behind his father, auburn hair swept up into a neat up-do. “Mère?”

There is a single silent moment when Courfeyrac hesitates before both he and his father break through the barriers between them and run at each other in a most undignified manner, embracing fiercely. Madame de Courfeyrac follows in behind her husband, smiling apologetically at Valjean.

“My boy,” Enjolras hears Monsieur de Courfeyrac mutter into his son’s shoulder, one hand resting at the back of his neck, toying with Courfeyrac’s curls. “Oh my boy. You’re alive. You’re here.”

Courfeyrac emits a barely audible sob, muffled by his father’s coat, but it’s a sound of relief, rather than total sadness.

Enjolras feels his father’s eyes land on him as they watch the reunion, a far cry from their own meeting yesterday, and he feels the sadness within him grow, because a voice in the darkest recesses of his mind tells him that what he sees in front of him will never exist between his father and himself again.

“I do apologize for our completely rude and unannounced arrival Monsieur Fauchelevent,” Courfeyrac’s mother tells Valjean, looking fondly at her husband and son, who have still not let go of each other. “But Alain simply couldn’t wait for the post to arrive back and forth. I am Pauline de Courfeyrac and that apparently manner-devoid husband of mine is Alain. We are ever so pleased to meet you.”

“Always with the participle, the two of you,” Courfeyrac groans, sniffling, seizing his mother gently by the sleeve of her traveling coat and pulling her into the embrace. “You never tire of it.”

Enjolras watches Madame de Courfeyrac embrace her son, placing a kiss on each of his cheeks, then one on his forehead.

“One from Olivie and one from Josephine,” she says, referencing Courfeyrac’s two older sisters. She pulls back, giving him a concerned once-over, eyes catching on the scarred over wound just above Courfeyrac’s eyebrow. It’s small, but noticeable to a mother who knows her son. “And one from me.”

Monsieur de Courfeyrac clears his throat and straightens his jacket, turning back toward Valjean.

“I’m terribly sorry for my lack of decorum monsieur,” he says, putting out his hand. “Alain de Courfeyrac. We cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for our son. Truly.”

“We do not stand on ceremony here,” Valjean replies, shaking the hand offered him. “You are most welcome monsieur, certainly. Let me go and see if the rest of the house has finished breakfasting. I’m sure all of the boys and my daughter Cosette would be pleased to meet you.”

Enjolras watches Valjean walk away, eyeing the group curiously once more before going down the hallway to the kitchen, as no one much bothers with the formal dining area for their morning meals. Courfeyrac leads his parents over to Enjolras and Aubry, and Enjolras finds himself wishing he wasn’t still in his dressing gown, and has no doubt his father thinks the same.

 “This is René Enjolras, one of my dearest friends,” Courfeyrac says smiling up at Enjolras as he introduces him. “And his father, Monsieur Aubry Enjolras.”

“A pleasure,” Monsieur de Courfeyrac says, as genuine as his son, reaching out to shake both hands.

“We’ve heard a great deal about you,” Madame de Courfeyrac replies, very kind, and Enjolras’ fears that perhaps they would strongly dislike him wash away. “When did you arrive, monsieur? Madame Enjolras is with you, I imagine?” she asks Aubry.

“Just yesterday morning, actually,” Aubry replies. “With Flora and her mother Violet. I believe they are upstairs dressing, which is quite better than I can say for myself at present,” he says, gesturing at his dressing gown.

“Oh do not be concerned,” Monsieur de Courfeyrac says with a friendly wave of his hand. “We burst in on you at an atrociously early hour. We wrote Marcel to see if he might come home, but he is comfortable here, with his friends, so we saw fit to come to him.”

Enjolras watches Courfeyrac’s face fall slightly, his face readying for an argument, readying to defend his stance, his politics, his friends, but Monsieur de Courfeyrac, as in tune with people as his son, does not miss anything. He places a warm arm around his son’s shoulders, squeezing gently, a silent sign that all is well, that old disagreements and familial tension will not get in the way of their reunion, will not get in the way of the fact that Courfeyrac is alive.

“We were so relieved when your wife came to us with word about Marcel on her journey back to Marseilles,” he continues, looking back at Aubry. “It was comforting to speak with someone who had actually seen all the boys alive until Marcel was able to send a less cryptic letter. But speaking to Flora, who had seen them in person…it was a great relief.”

“She was pleased to put your hearts a little more at ease,” Aubry says, and Enjolras notes that he’s gazing at Monsieur de Courfeyrac as if studying him, examining him, searching for answers in the flurry of the man’s arrival. “Flora happened to be in Paris at the time of…” Aubry halts for a moment, and Enjolras feels himself tense. “The revolt,” Aubry finishes. “In a moment of luck she and Adrienne happened to meet Monsieur Fauchelevent, who we all owe a great debt, I imagine.”

Enjolras freezes; it is the first time he’s heard his father voice that sentiment since his arrival, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“He is undoubtedly the kindest man I’ve ever met,” Enjolras finally says. “We would not be standing here were it not for him.”

“We have much to learn from him,” Monsieur de Courfeyrac replies. “Perhaps too, from you young men.”

He does not go further, but Enjolras knows the situation well enough to know what he’s leaving out; it wasn’t so much the politics they disagreed with (though Courfeyrac’s parents certainly held tight to the old ways in several respects) but the dangerous activism, the active partaking in revolutionary activities.  Let someone else do that, had been the attitude. In their minds Courfeyrac needn’t risk his life and opportunities over it when he wasn’t affected, when he was the only son. But the barricade, the near loss of their son’s life, bearing witness to the fact that Courfeyrac was not about to give up his cause, rendered all of that moot in the minds of the de Courfeyracs, or so it seems to Enjolras’ eyes.

Courfeyrac cannot stop the perplexed, disbelieving look from passing across his face at his father’s words, but he relaxes again at the touch of his father’s hand on his shoulder, the tension in his muscles easing, his smile returning nearly full force.

“Well, let us allow René and Monsieur Enjolras to go change and join us with the others,” Courfeyrac suggests, sensing that his parents’ arrival had interrupted something and also perhaps desiring a moment alone with them as they had all done for Enjolras the previous morning. “See you in a bit?” he asks, looking at Enjolras.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, nodding. “We will only be a little while.”

With that they’re gone, disappearing down the hallway toward the kitchen.

* * *

Aubry watches the de Courfeyracs walk away, both parents’ arms wrapped around their son’s middle, their own hands clasped together, and he instantly envies their ability to so easily sweep aside all disagreements, all conflict when his own family is so fractured. He suddenly wishes Flora were here beside him, but he also knows she cannot and will not fix this for him; it rests in his hands and his hands only.  René has already made his offering in his usual direct way. He sees his son’s hand clench at his side, eyes falling closed for a brief moment as it hovers over the place where his leg wound must rest. Aubry hates seeing his son in such pain, hates seeing it crash over his face in waves of discomfort.

“Would you like some help up the stairs?” Aubry asks. “I see you’re in pain. I can assist you with dressing, if you need it.”

René very obviously hesitates, the stubbornness he learned from Aubry flickering in his face, but there’s decision in his eyes, determination. He’s not ready to be vulnerable in front of his father, but he’s willing, for this. Now Aubry has to be willing, too. He looks at this son for a long moment, reminding himself that he’s here, that he’s alive, that nightmares from last night spots of black tar stuck to his brain.

“Yes,” he finally says. “Thank you.”

Aubry offers his arm and René takes it, and Aubry does not miss how heavily his son leans on his cane, a far cry from the athletic young lad Aubry knew so well. They make their way up one step at a time, and images of the nightmare that had awoken him at three in the morning, drenched in sweat, flash though his mind, a nightmare he will never forget.

_René glaring at him with hard, intense blue eyes, his cheek red from Aubry’s unprecedented slap_.

They make it halfway up the stairs, René’s hand tightening on his arm through a barely discernible gasp of pain.

_Watching as his son storms out, hearing his own voice spew vitriol he means and doesn’t all at once. Feeling his heart clench in agony as he realizes what he’s done, but too furious to relent, even as he sees frustrated, desperate tears fill Flora’s eyes._

They’re halfway up the stairs now, and Aubry senses this must be a bad morning, because his son is shaking, much as he tries concealing it. He’s angry at himself for being so stubborn, for not speaking to his son, but he doesn’t know how to handle this.

_The image distorts to Paris, to a street he’s never walked on and the barricade he never saw. René stands at the top, gun poised, lightning in his eyes, the sun lighting up behind him so bright Aubry cannot look upon it. Blood stains his son’s hands, his jacket, and he points his gun into the oncoming stream of national guardsmen, an aura of fire around him mixing with a melancholy so deep it leaves Aubry breathless._

They’re finally at the top of the stairs and René stops for a moment, breathing in deeply before letting go of Aubry’s arm and leaning on his cane. It’s just a short distance to his room.

_But René keeps shooting, using his gun almost as a club when there’s no more ammunition and no more friends to hand him new weapons. Tears run tracks through the dirt smeared on his son’s face as he watches each of his closest friends fall, watches all of his comrades fall, audible shouts of agony breaking through his lips when seven in particular perish. He fights even more wildly, as if he does not even know the meaning of exhaustion. Suddenly there’s a window and more blazing sunlight spilling into the dark room, more national guardsmen and then somehow the young man called Grantaire is next to René, their hands clasped, a smile mixing with the defiance in his son’s eyes. Bullets rings out, blood spatters, and René is pinned to the wall by eight bullets, Grantaire fallen at his feet, their hands still loosely joined. The darkness splinters with light, and Aubry sees himself sobbing over his son’s body, Flora on her knees beside him, silent, unending tears sliding down her face while Violet stands by the window, eyes fixed on everything but her grandson._

“Père?” René asks, pulling Aubry from his reveries as they reach the door. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Aubry says, following behind as they enter the bedroom and René sits down, rubbing at his leg. “My thoughts were a bit scattered. I had…nightmares last night.”

There’s no need for him to mention who or what the dream was about. There’s no need to tell him that it took Flora nearly ten minutes to convince him their son was alive a few doors down, to convince him that he wasn’t a complete and utter failure as a father, as human being. She was so comforting and so kind when he’d made a complete ass of himself only hours earlier, even when they’d argued until right before they’d fallen asleep, the look in her eyes, the harsh fervor in her tone, reminding Aubry of René. He remembers the first days of knowing her, of how his love for her had seized him and never let him out of its grip. She’d been as beautiful then as she was now, though in youth she’d let her hair flow in the wind, never tying it back as the other girls did, a rugged rebellion in her eyes yet elegance in every step.

He is not sure he ever deserved her.

Aubry wants to continue their conversation, but he knows first they must go downstairs and join the rest to greet the de Courfeyracs. Rene attempts to get up again, no doubt in an effort to put on the clothes laid out on the chair in the corner, but Aubry puts up a hand.

“I’ll get them,” he says quietly. “Sit tight.”

“There’s no…” Rene begins, but stops himself midsentence, allowing his father to bring him the clothes, and Aubry wishes he could see inside his son’s mind, wishes he could know better how to approach him, how to mend this impasse. Rene is trying, and he must try in turn, must circumvent his own frustration, his own fears.

Aubry lays the clothes out on the bed, eyes running over them, and despite the fact that the others are waiting on them, he cannot prevent words from leaving his mouth, cannot possibly sit through another meal after everyone witnessed his behavior at dinner last evening, not without speaking to his son. For once in his life, he’s damning good manners.

 “I was seventeen when the Revolution ended,” Aubry says abruptly, drawing his son’s full attention. “I’d just arrived in Paris, as a matter of fact. But I grew up in the turmoil, saw it unfold, and it exhilarated me, much to my parents’ dismay. But then I saw it fail, its giant personalities killed years before. I saw Napoleon’s reign, I saw the return of a king to the throne, saw France thrown into economic despair. I saw you start believing so passionately in the same ideas of which I’d skimmed the surface, the ideas I’d given up on, the ideas my parents insisted I give up on. I often believe they allowed my marriage to your mother in the hope I would forget by starting a life, a family, and I did forget. Yet here I am, doing something of a similar nature to you, something I swore in my adolescence I would never do to my own children.”

Rene pauses, eyes widening. “You never told me any of this.” There’s anger in his tone, but it’s not complete, and Aubry seizes his chance with a further burst of honesty.

“My pride was too much,” he admits. “Even in my peak days I never believed in those ideals as much as you do, and I was afraid it would destroy you, I was afraid it would fail you.”

“The Revolution did not end the way it was intended,” Enjolras says, voice wavering with pure, intense enthusiasm. “But it paved the way. Those ideas are not dead. They live on, not just here but all across the world, in politics, in literature, in so many mediums. So my friends and I, we continued the fight because one day, there will be victory, I know it. Freedom. Liberte, Egalite…”

“Fraternite,” Aubry finishes with a whisper, completing one of the most well-known mantras of the Revolution.

Aubry cannot speak further, he cannot push the words forth, but he also senses that if he does not seize this moment, his son will be forever lost to him. He steels himself; he saw Monsieur de Courfeyrac’s reunion with his own son, and he wants that as well, wants what they have, even if it too, is flawed. He and René will never be as they were, it will never be perfect and perhaps never entirely peaceful, but there is a chance for _something_ and that, he realizes now, is more important than anything. His son might be dead to society, but he is alive still, gloriously alive, as Monsieur de Courfeyrac had so simply pointed out. As his mother in law pointed out. As his wife and Fauchelevent pointed out. As his dreams tried to deny.

“You don’t have to start knowing me from the beginning,” René offers, voice tinged with the barest edge of hope. “Just from where you left off.”

“You need me yet?” Aubry says before he can stop. “You are quite close with Monsieur Fauchelevent.”

“I am growing to be so, yes,” Enjolras says, but there is a hint forgiveness in his eyes, a sliver of trust. “There is a common spirit between us, in some ways, and my place is undoubtedly here in Avignon. But that does not in any way mean you do not belong as well. Expansion, not exclusion. I do not even ask that you understand me, I only ask that you accept. I do love you, Papa,” he continues, using the childhood term of endearment he hasn’t used since before adolescence, and for just a moment he is the little boy again, smiling up at Aubry with excited blue eyes, blonde curls wild and untamed, dirt streaked across his cheek from playing outside, until he morphs again into the firm, grave, passionate young man before him. The eyes though, those are much the same: they crackle. “That has never changed.”

Aubry cannot help it; he reaches for his son, pulling him forward into an embrace that is fully returned. René is no longer a child, but a young man, a leader of men, a compassionate friend, an extensively well-read scholar, a lawyer. A fugitive. A revolutionary.

“I’m sorry,” Aubry breathes. “For everything I said to you last night. I was cruel. I am sorry for…”

“I know,” René replies. “I know you are. I am as well, for my own stubbornness.”

Aubry holds him tighter, careful of his injuries. He doesn’t know how they will handle René’s ‘death’ he doesn’t know the way forward yet for any of them, he knows there are more emotions and issues to sort through and this is not some type of easy solution to a complicated problem, but he also knows he will find a way to hold onto the essence of this moment.

When he looks up, Flora is standing in the doorway watching them, and for the first time in years, he sees the smile reaching her eyes. 


	32. Thanks to Valjean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I hope you enjoy the extra-long chapter! Many thanks as always to ariadneslostthread, who has helped make this story far and beyond anything I imagined it could be. Thanks for always sorting out my brain, darling.

_Marius’ eyes pop open, and he finds himself within the walls of the Café Musain. He sits up, rubbing at the aching sensation toward the back of his head, other hand flying toward his abdomen; he sees a hole there shaped perfectly like the bullet that pierced him, but no blood pours forth, no pain spasms across his entire midsection. He’s on his feet now, fully taking in his surroundings._

_He wishes he hadn’t._

_Because in front of him lay the dead, unmoving forms of Enjolras and Grantaire, the morning dawn from the window illuminating both of their pale, lifeless faces. Eight bullets exactly pin Enjolras to the wall, and Grantaire lies on the floor at their leader’s feet, their hands still clasped together, even in death. Just a few feet away Courfeyrac’s body lays spread-eagled upon the wood, his lips still inching up, miraculously, in what is almost a defiant smile, greeting death as he met life but for blood flowing from a bayonet wound in his side. Combeferre is nearby, his chest pierced by two horrific looking bayonet wounds, his spectacles cracked  and falling crookedly off his nose, one hand reaching out toward Courfeyrac, the other toward Enjolras. Eponine too, lies silent and still in the corner of the room, blood leaking from beneath her dark hair. He sees Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Prouvaire, and Bahorel all surrounding him and standing eerily still, but all most certainly dead._

_He looks around desperately at the chairs missing their owners, scattered haphazardly and abandoned around tables void of their usual bottles of wine, maps and plans, the occasional case of cartridges, all replaced now with scars from shrapnel, and with blood. Dripping with blood._

 

**_The blood of angry men_ ** _…_

_But this cannot be right, he tells himself, some of them made it out alive, some of them…_

_He feels the tears sliding down his face as he hears voices outside the window, voices of the National Guard._

_“All dead,” one of them says, and Marius hears the sickening sound of bodies being piled onto the cart with little care or affection for the souls which once inhabited them. “Not one survivor on this barricade, but I dunno that I’d much care to survive, if I were them. Death or prison awaits ‘em all anyway, with high treason, unless the king decides to show mercy.”_

_“The leader wasn’t even wounded till we killed him,” the other responds, and Marius look over at Enjolras again, unmarred save for the bullets that killed him, but for his comrades’ blood creating crimson freckles across his skin, staining his clothes. “Shot the artillery sergeant, admitted to it, even. If he hadn’t proven so dangerous I would say it was like shooting a flower. He looked like an…archangel, almost, furious and innocent all at once. Dead now, though, just like the rest.”_

_I’m alive! Marius wants to shout, but he cannot, he cannot because his words are cut off by a sob, a sound the guards cannot seem to hear from their positions on the ground, or perhaps it is only inside his own head._

_They cannot all be dead, not all of them._

_He has been alone his whole life, an isolated child with only his elderly grandfather and his aunt for company, a child with a father he thought had no love for him, a child with a mother who was long dead. He remembers long winter afternoons spent by the window watching the snow fall, feeling the loneliness threatening to devour him from the inside out._

_Then he’d left his childhood home, he’d been truly, completely alone; no money, no family he was willing to speak to, no friends, and living in truly wretched circumstance, furious at his grandfather, and hurt by his lies. But then Bossuet had called his name in the law school, introduced him to Courfeyrac, and in turn Courfeyrac introduced him to all of the Amis. It was true he’d been intimidated at first, especially by Enjolras’ intensity, Combeferre’s intelligence, Bahorel’s mere size, their reaction to his initial Bonapartist rant, but Courfeyrac was not the sort of fellow to drop a bone he’d taken a liking to, and so Marius returned, then again, soon finding himself comfortable among them, learning not only their politics, but their personalities, forming friendships. When he had nowhere to go, Courfeyrac gave him lodging, when he had no family, they gave him one. Among these young men a few years his seniors, he’d grown up._

_He looks around again, heart racing in his chest, ever muscle trembling, his bones shaking in their sockets. His catch for a moment on Jehan, a memory flashing in his mind of the two of them sitting in a corner of the Musain one night, Jehan’s intense gaze almost an echo of Enjolras’ yet still his own, as they went over a particular volume of poetry Jehan felt Marius would like. Coleridge’s “The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner” if he recalled correctly, in the original English that Jehan knew and Marius was learning._

_Once again, he is friendless. Alone. Once again, he feels unbearably alone because who else does he know that lost all of their friends in one fell swoop? Finally he falls to his knees beside Courfeyrac’s limp form, so devoid of his usual laugh, his sparkle, his verve._

_“Wake up!” Marius demands, shaking Courfeyrac, but receiving no answer. How does he go on without Courfeyrac, under whose friendship he blossomed?_

_“Wake up!” he screams, louder now as he turns around toward all of them, tears filling his eyes again, voice cracking with emotion._

_But his voice only echoes through the room, off the walls and back into his own ears._

_Alone._

_Cosette, he reminds himself. You still have Cosette._

**_But will she want you like this_ ** _? a dark voice whispers. **Will she want you like this, broken and wounded, grief for these lost friends always playing at the edges of your mind?**_

Marius doesn’t have time to answer his psyche’s own cruel, tormenting question before he wakes up, sitting straight up in bed, sweat soaking his pillowcase. There is a cry on his lips that dies almost as soon as we wakes, and he reaches for the pitcher on bedside table, gulping down an entire glass in a matter of thirty seconds. He swings his legs over the side, wishing his body would cease its trembling, wishing his mind would cease its spinning. He was plagued by nightmares the first few nights after the barricade, fever-ridden dreams full of abstract horror he can scarcely recall, unaware of the fate of his friends, his last coherent memory before succumbing to the fever was of Enjolras, unconscious and bleeding out in his grandfather’s parlor.

But since then, even during Enjolras’ days of illness, when he’d been arrested by Javert, as they’d begun the long process of grieving for their friends, the world of his dreams remained blank. He saw his friends’ tired eyes, thankful that once his fever passed, his own nightmares faded. Despite his imagination, despite his runway Romantic musings, he’d never been prone to them, so he wondered now, why he’d just awoken from such a terrible dream.

His thoughts are interrupted by a soft rap at the door, a sound he’d know anywhere now. Cosette.

“Come in,” he calls, reaching swiftly for his dressing gown to pull over his nightshirt. He knows Cosette’s seem him in less due to his illness, but he blushes even still as he swiftly ties the knot. They are after all, still unmarried. He thinks of Courfeyrac and his good-humored stories of his mistresses, some he is still great friends with, some he hid from under his hat if he passes them in the street. Marius wonders not for the first time how Courfeyrac always manages to be charming and flirtatious with young ladies he speaks to, even upon first meeting, while Marius feels he can hardly manage not to stumble over his words in front of Cosette, the love of his life.

“Marius?” she asks, stepping inside and closing the door behind her with a click. “I heard a cry, are you all right?”

“I had a nightmare,” he answers, honest. He sees no reason to be ashamed of such a thing, particularly not in front of this woman he loves so much he scarcely knew such a love was possible. “I’m sorry if I woke you, darling.”

“It’s quite fine,” she replies, sitting down next to him on the bed and taking one of his hands in hers. “What was the dream about? I find talking about it helps, I know it does with me, most of the time. Especially when I was small, and Papa would soothe me when I had nightmares about Madame Thenardier.”

He squeezes her hand, interlacing their fingers, feeling his heart slow in her presence, feeling his soul alight with the breathless joy she inevitably brings him, something he can only hope he does for her as well.

“I dreamt I was in the Musain,” he tells her, eyes falling to the floor. “I dreamt all of my friends were dead; not just Joly, Bossuet, Prouvaire, and Bahorel, but Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire, and Feuilly as well. I heard the National Guard talking about them, saw them piling the bodies of our comrades onto carts.” He closes his eyes, images of the dream dancing a sinister jig in front of him. “I’m not sure why I dreamt those things now, when I have not been subject to nightmares since my fever, not as the others have. But now… ” he trails off, unsure how to continue.

Cosette is quiet for a moment, but there is determination on her face.

“We have formed a family of our own here,” she tells him, meeting his gaze. “Perhaps you fear losing that? I have the same fears, sometimes, even if they are irrational.”

He looks at her, her words striking him. She’s right, he thinks. He’s never felt like such a part of something, and now that things, while far from normal, and perhaps even far from stable, are steadier than they have been.

“Sometimes when we sense good things on the horizon,” Cosette says slowly, rubbing circles on the skin of his hand with her thumb. “We fear it all being ripped away from us.”

“You are very wise, Cosette,” Marius says, smiling, filled to the brim with the same instant rush of love he’d felt the day he saw her in Luxembourg Gardens, the same breathless delight.

“I don’t know about that,” Cosette says, blood filling her cheeks and tinting her skin pink. “I only know that’s how I felt when Papa first took me away from the Thenardiers. Every day for weeks I waited for him to change his mind, for him to send me back, to tell me I was a wretched child and leave me abandoned on the street. Of course that’s ridiculous, he’s the kindest person on this earth, but our experiences, our tragedies, distort thing sometimes. I didn’t really understand as a child, but I do now, I think. I’m still learning.”

At this, Marius cannot help himself: he wraps his arms around Cosette, careful of his nearly healed injury, which is still very sore, and which Combeferre says will pain him for a while yet if touched or aggravated. But he suddenly needs her closer to him, needs to feel her physical presence to chase away his nightmare. She returns his embrace, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Your friends are still here,” she whispers, rubbing one hand up and down his back when he starts involuntarily shivering, his nightmare covering him in a freezing mist, goose bumps popping up and racing down his skin. “I know you’ve lost comrades, that you’ve lost four of your closest friends, you lost Eponine, who died in your arms, but Enjolras is here, Courfeyrac is here, Combeferre is here, Feuilly and Grantaire are here. Gavroche is here.”

“You’re here,” he murmurs, burying his face in her shoulder.

“Yes,” she says, her own voice tremulous with emotion. “And I always will be.”

“And I for you,” he replies, looking back up at her, one hand coming to rest on the side of her face. “You won’t forget that, will you?”

“No,” she says, a grin playing at her lips. “I could never forget it. Do you feel a bit better? Nightmares are such dreadful things.”

“A bit, in your presence,” he says. “It just felt so real, still feels so real, even here in the waking world.” He pauses, thinking for a moment. “I keep thinking of your father.”

“Of Papa?” she asks, tilting her head to the side in question.

“Yes,” he answers, memories soaring back to the barricade, to watching Valjean’s skill with a musket in awe, wondering who this mysterious older man was, this man come to the aid of young students and workers of his own volition, and he later found out, to save Marius’ own life. “None of this would be possible without him. I wouldn’t be alive, none of us would. I wouldn’t be here with you. Javert might have succeeded in taking Enjolras to Paris, where he would have faced prison or even execution. Somehow, he created this entire new, raw family of ours. I wish to thank him, but I feel my words simply aren’t enough. I know my friends feel the same way.”

“I have felt the same way my entire life,” Cosette admits, smoothing back some of his hair, tousled from his nightmare. “How do I thank him for taking me away from Montfermeil? How do I thank him for taking me in as his own and giving me everything, for loving me as he does? I simply cannot say enough, do enough. But that’s the beautiful thing about Papa: he doesn’t require any of that. Your words of gratitude are enough to keep him content for the rest of his life, I believe.”

“I understand, I think,” Marius says. “I just wish there was something we could all do for him.”

“We shall think on it,” Cosette decides. “Between all of us, I’m sure we’ll come up with something to do that wouldn’t make him fuss; he doesn’t care for having attention on himself. In the meantime, how do you feel about going down for some tea and breakfast? It might soothe your anxiety.”

“Absolutely,” Marius says, rising from the bed, still keeping his hand in hers, his heart full. He pauses for a moment, a request hanging on the edge of his lips. “Before we do, would you mind if I checked in on my friends? I’d just like to see them.”

“You don’t even need to ask,” Cosette says, winking at him, and he thinks he falls in love with her just a little bit more. “Of course we can. Most of them sleep like the dead, anyway.”

Marius chuckles, and keeps hold of Cosette’s hand as they step out into the hallway. They head to Feuilly’s room first, which is next door to Marius’, easing the door open almost noiselessly. Feuilly lays exactly on the ride side of the bed, the left utterly untouched, one knee pulled up to his chest, the other stretched out, one arm resting against his face, his hair a muss of auburn. Next is Grantaire’s room, and Marius smiles at the difference in the way Grantaire sleeps compared to his next door neighbor, splayed out on his stomach in the middle of the bed, arms and legs spread out to each corner, face turned away from the door. Next is Courfeyrac’s room, which they find empty, and Marius quiets his heart, telling himself that all is well, that Courfeyrac could easily be anywhere. His heart stills when they find him next to Enjolras in bed, and Marius isn’t surprised; Courfeyrac’s nightmares have been unrelenting lately, particularly since things calmed down ever so slightly, his mind finally releasing the fear it’s kept pent up in order to keep a clear head in crisis, to keep a clear head for Enjolras, for Combeferre. Last night Courfeyrac fell asleep in Combeferre’s bed, the night before in Marius’ own. Enjolras lays on the right side of the bed flat on his back, covers pulled up all the way to his face, blonde hair loose and a mess of curls across the pillows. Courfeyrac lays on his side facing Enjolras, one leg outside the blankets, head halfway onto Enjolras’ pillow. Next they go to Combeferre’s room, finding the good doctor lying on his side only halfway under the covers, an open book sitting just at the edge of his fingertips. Finally they reach Gavroche’s room, seeing the small, vivacious boy curled up in a ball in the center of the bed, a peaceful, relaxed smile on his face.

“Better?” Cosette asks, closing Gavroche’s door behind her.

“Much,” Marius says, the nightmare already a bit hazier in his mind. Still there, but less vivid, less sharp.

The horizon ahead was murky, but there was light inching up into the mass of black and grey, and quite honestly, Marius is pleased to see there is a horizon ahead of him, ahead of his friends.

Thanks to Valjean.

* * *

Cosette has never been surrounded by so many people at once. This is not entirely truthful, she supposes; in the convent there had been the nuns and the other girls in the convent school, but peaceful and pleasant as it had been growing up there, it was locked away from the world, and the atmosphere was entirely different from what she experiences now. Nevertheless, the parlor where she, Flora, Violet, Madame de Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac sit drinking coffee mid-morning, is rather full.

It is peculiar for her, to think of the tragedy and grief these young men have been through; to think of the friends who are gone, the ones she never knew and yet feels as if she does, to think that the greatest hardship of their lives marked one of the most wonderful developments in her own. Despite the grief, the sadness and the hardship, she has gained a family and she has never been happier. It is strange, how different stages of people’s lives, people who see each other every day, can begin and end simultaneously.

She has Marius now, a fiancé she never saw coming, she has something akin to five older brothers and one younger, and though her papa looks tired and weary, he also looks happier than she ever remembers seeing him in recent years as she grew older. The gleam she remembers from childhood when he would spin her around in the air, her giggles echoing into the air, has returned to his eyes. She’d been happy living in a house with her papa, but she’d been content, but she’d been lonely, isolated. Always a bit restless, longing for something more, for adventure.

Now she’s surrounded by people, the household swelled again with the arrival of the Enjolrases and the de Courfeyracs, the expansive halls of even a house this size filling up. Touissant and Madame Bellard seem pleased to have even more people to look after, and other women with which to bemoan and despair the young male charges under their care who are constant source of gossip and tutting. There is laughter in the house, chatter, a far cry from the silence Cosette grew so used to the past few years, and the difference warms her inside. She’s so lost in her introspection that she nearly misses Flora speaking to her.

“Do you have any wedding plans yet Cosette dear?” she asks, a soft, true smile gracing her features, very reminiscent of her son. Just like him too, in giving a person the sense her entire attention is devoted to them, and that conversation. She’s been happier over the past several days since Enjolras and his father appeared to have come to some sort of understanding after the fight that nearly ripped them apart permanently.

“Oh,” Cosette says, blushing slightly when she sees Flora, Violet, Madame de Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac himself peering at her expectantly, an eagerness in their eyes.  From his place in an armchair opposite hers, Feuilly grins in sympathy and continues to quietly drink his coffee, just as unused to the attention as she is. Out of the corner of her eye through the window she sees Gavroche in the garden with Madame Bellard, helping her tend the flowers as he usually does, relishing in the outdoors he is so used to, though the air is considerably cleaner here than in Paris. There is, she notices, with a smile, a streak of dirt on his cheek, and for a moment she rather heartily wishes she was outside with them. Gavroche, she notices, has an odd, faraway look in his eyes, planting the flowers and vegetables with a little less enthusiasm than normal, and she makes a mental note to check in on him later.

“Well, there’s a church in Avignon that Marius attended as a child where we want to have the ceremony, and they’ve got a little hall where we could eat a meal afterwards, possibly have some dancing, though I don’t know really know anyone apart from everyone here, we haven’t had that much opportunity to meet new people yet, and I’m not sure how many people might travel from Paris if M. Gillenormand invited them…” she trails off, suddenly feeling overwhelmed, her incredible excitement over the wedding fading a little as she realizes she has no idea how to plan one, the same rush of melancholy she’d felt on the day of Marius’ proposal at missing her mysterious figure of a mother sweeping through her again.

There is an additional complication that suddenly occurs to her with this consideration of the practicalities of organizing a wedding. Enjolras. Outside of the members of this household, and their families, the rest of the world believes him dead. Anyone attending this wedding from Paris might recognize the infamous insurgent, he is hardly inconspicuous. And neither she, nor Marius, would consider marrying without him there.

Courfeyrac puts a hand on her shoulder and she looks up into his eyes, sees the thought reflected there, a thought he’s probably already entertained. “Cosette, darling.” He says, quietly, “We’ll work something out, a way for Enjolras to be there, however many people there are.” He squeezes her shoulder, and his sure smile sets her mind at rest, though the worry lingers. “And I absolutely insist there be dancing!” Courfeyrac continues, louder, kind smile stretching into a grin. “Don’t fret, I’ve been teaching Marius myself, the clumsy lad, and he’s getting quite adept, I must say. And I cannot miss the opportunity to dance with the beautiful bride myself. I’m sure all of us can say the same. Right, Feuilly?” he asks, winking at his friend.

“Quite right,” Feuilly says, rolling his eyes fondly. “I’m sure we’d all like to take a turn with you. Grantaire’s actually a superb dancer, now that you mention it.”

“Very true! He’s very talented, though getting him to admit it is difficult, which is our dear Grantaire’s middle name,” Courfeyrac agrees with a nod, and Cosette feels more comfortable again. “Enjolras is quite light on his feet too. Or he was…” Courfeyrac uncharacteristically stumbles over his words, obviously remembering Enjolras’ leg, the cane, the injury. After a moment he looks back up again, smile dimmed, but still there.  “That is, if only one can get him to dance in the first place, but I doubt he could find it in him to say no to you. To me, certainly,” he teases. “But never you. Combeferre’s a bit dreadful, but you can be assured of riveting conversation. No one, of course, is as debonaire as myself, but who is, really?”

Cosette giggles, and realizes just what Courfeyrac has just done, diverting her energy from worrying into excitement again.

 

“You are shameless,” Madame de Courfeyrac says fondly, shaking her head with a grin.

“Like father like son,” Courfeyrac shoots back, his expression cat-like as he raises his eyebrows. “You and my sisters are the ones with the sense in our family Mère, you know that.”

“I think you have a great deal of sense,” Cosette says, playfully flicking Courfeyrac in the arm. “But I don’t know if we should have a reception.  I would love too, but I don’t know. Though the dancing offers do sound tempting.”

She stops for a moment; she knows that if they’d stayed in Paris, M. Gillenormand might have put on a large event, inviting people all across Paris that she didn’t know, a large, fancy affair. As it stands, they have not yet been here long enough to make friends to invite to a wedding, and her entire world and people she cares about live in this house besides. A part of her thinks longingly of the Paris wedding, but the larger part of her balks at a wedding full of people she doesn’t know, devoid of these young men who are like brothers, because Paris is too dangerous right now for any of them. Perhaps it is for the best, in the end; the fewer people there are at the wedding, the less risk there is to Enjolras. She wonders if they might disguise him somehow, conspicuous as he is.

No matter how small, she thinks with a smile, Courfeyrac will find a way to make sure there is dancing. For her part, Cosette is excited to find a wedding cake baker, having seen a great deal of lovely cakes when frequenting bakeries in Paris near the Luxembourg Gardens.

“Well the most important question is have you found a dress yet?” Violet asks, a curious, sincere smile on her lips. “That is the key to any wedding, the dress.”

“I was not…” Cosette hesitates, feeling unsure again. “I was not entirely sure where to begin? Papa said he could have whatever I liked made for me, but I’ve never actually been to a wedding, I’ve only seen pictures.”

“Well we’re here for a few more days yet,” Flora says, and Cosette gets the sense that somehow the older woman is reading her mind, her eyes penetrating through to her heart as Enjolras’ so often do without words. Flora’s eyes are Enjolras’ own, and it sends a pang through Cosette’s heart wondering if she has her own mother’s eyes. “If you’d like us to go into Avignon with you to find a dress we would be more than pleased to help.”

“That sounds like a marvelous idea, if you don’t mind my coming along,” Madame de Courfeyrac adds. “I’ve dressed two daughters for weddings already, so I’m well versed in wedding dress shopping.”

Cosette is about to respond when there are footsteps approaching the dining room, and Marius enters looking sheepish when he sees them all gathered around.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” he asks, stalling in the doorway and gazing around at everyone in the room. Cosette can’t help but smile; she knows that after his lonely childhood spent with his grandfather and aunt, Marius enjoys having such a lively household almost as much as she does.

“Don’t be ridiculous Marius,” Courfeyrac says, moving over a chair and patting the one he just occupied so that Marius might sit next to Cosette. “Do sit. It is your wedding, after all, which is the topic of conversation.”

“Oh?” Marius says, and Cosette takes his hand loosely within hers, knowing how awkward and unsure he often feels in social situations, but also admiring how he’s grown, particularly under Courfeyrac’s tutelage.

“Madame Enjolras, Madame Gagne, and Madame de Courfeyrac were just offering to help me search for a dress,” she tells him, the familiar excitement about the wedding returning and partly dashing away her melancholy now that Marius is here. “Where were you?”

“I was talking with Enjolras,” Marius replies, looking up at Flora as he speaks. “But then Combeferre came in to start the first day of the rehabilitation exercises for Enjolras’ leg and shoulder, so I left them to it.”

 “Probably wise,” Courfeyrac says, nodding. “I’m not sure Enjolras realizes what he has coming to him in that regard.” He adds with a strangely knowing expression Cosette only has a moment to wonder at (she’d seen Combeferre and Courfeyrac talking together yesterday, heads bowed together, but she’d only caught the words “Grantaire is adept at fencing and single sticks too” before walking on, noting their gazes flitting up to her) because Violet brings the conversation smartly back on topic, and Cosette wonders instead, whether Enjolras himself put his mother and grandmother up to this.

“So what do you say about the dress my dear?” Violet prompts.

 Cosette exchanges a quick glance with Marius, seeing the encouragement in his eyes, and assents.

“I would be very pleased to go with the three of you,” she says, excitement flooding through her again. “I very much appreciate it. I know it will relieve some of Papa’s stress; he’s been quite distraught at not knowing where to begin with searching for a proper wedding dress.”

“It shall do us good to get away from all these men,” Madame de Courfeyrac says, looking over at her son with a teasing expression, and despite the fact that Madame de Courfeyrac is more reserved than her husband and son, Cosette can see that Courfeyrac gets a good portion of his personality from her. She wonders how much her Papa takes after his parents that he never mentions, after the sister he’s only mentioned a few times since he’d told her of his past that day in the Luxembourg Gardens. She wonders again if she is very much like Fantine, a woman she only remembers in hazy images of white cloth, blonde hair, and a bright smile dulled by sadness, a voice singing her lullabies.

“You are most wretched," Courfeyrac says with a pout. “Cosette enjoys spending time with us.”

“You’re just jealous they didn’t invite you out with them,” Marius says, and Courfeyrac turns to him, mouth opening in amused surprise at Marius’ rare teasing. “What do you know about dresses, might I ask?”

“More than you, my good man, certainly,” Courfeyrac says, recovering quickly. “I have seen enough of them to know something, I’m sure. But that’s all right, we will simply go out on an excursion soon to look for your wedding suit and leave them behind.”

“Oh please take Papa with you,” Cosette pleads. “He doesn’t enjoy shopping at all, but he’ll need something to wear to the wedding, he’s mentioned it already, and he might feel less unsure if he goes with all of you.”

“Of course,” Marius says, squeezing her hand. “He is like a father to us all, and will soon be my father in law; we’d be pleased to have him along.”

“And just to be clear,” Coureyrac adds, expression growing serious. “Anything your father asks of us, anything he needs us to do, we will. We owe him our very lives.”

Flora nods. “Your father is one of kindest men I’ve met, Cosette. All of the things he’s done, all you’ve done…well, I think I speak for all of us when I say we will never be able to repay him.”

Cosette blushes, silently reminding herself to tell her father these things later in private where he will have no room to protest in his usual manner.

“He does not want you to repay him,” she says honestly. “He is happy to help; it’s what he does really. He once had a man help him, change the direction of his life,” she continues, looking meaningfully for a moment at Marius, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly, who know her father’s story. “So he made it his mission to do that for other people.”

Silence falls among the table for a few moments, everyone’s minds no doubt filled with thoughts of the barricade, of Paris, of what the future holds. For her own part, Cosette’s head fills with images of the Thenardier inn, of being shouted at, frightened, always hungry and always cold in the winter, sees her papa’s face appearing in the wood, kind and benevolent. She sees Marius as she did for the first time in the Luxembourg Gardens, sees him wounded and half-dead with exhaustion. She sees Enjolras screaming in pain, lost in his hallucinations, sees his return from jail, leaning almost entirely on Combeferre and Courfeyrac, she sees Grantaire shaking uncontrollably from his withdrawal. She sees the spaces where lost friends she never knew once stood.

She shakes her head, clearing the smoky images away, reminding herself that they are all safe now, all together, that she is safe, that this family will not be taken away from her, they will not mistreat her or leave her.

It is Feuilly who breaks the silence, smiling softly and sincerely, as he says quite simply, “An extraordinary fellow.”

“Here, here!” Courfeyrac seconds, “And an extraordinary daughter, I must say.” He adds, toasting her with his tea cup. “And I will make sure your father, your groom and all of your groom’s men to boot will be properly dressed, no matter how stubborn or shy they be. I once dressed Combeferre for a party at the medical school and it took us several extra minutes to get him there for all the looks he got from young ladies in the street. I never did see that blue waistcoat again, come to think of it, the thief.”

This seems to light a thought in Marius, who suddenly straightens and reaches into his pocket.

 “Oh!” Marius exclaims, breaking through the silence and pulling a letter out of his pocket. “I forgot to mention; I received a letter from my grandfather this morning and he plans to come down in two weeks or so. He also mentioned that he wants to send a few invitations to close family friends who would like to come to the wedding, if you’re agreeable.”

“Certainly!” Cosette says, enthused. “Do tell him I say hello when you write back.”

Marius nods, and as usual his smile sets her heart alight. After a few more moments, the group breaks up, each going off in different directions. Courfeyrac falls into stride with his mother, pulling Marius along with him, Violet heads in the direction of the garden where Gavroche and Madame Bellard still are, having taken to fussing over Gavroche, something it’s clear the young boy likes and is also confused by all at once. Feuilly heads toward the back portico, book in hand.

“I ought to check on Papa, I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him this morning.” Cosette says, standing too.

She does intend to find her father, but she wants space, a moment to think and heads almost unconsciously up the stairs and toward her bedroom. She is stopped by a rustle of skirts behind her, and a hand on her arm. Turning around, she finds Flora has followed her.

“Madame Enjolras?” she questions with a smile.

“Flora, please.”

Cosette inclines her head, and smiles wider at the older woman, intrigued.

“Cosette, not to seem forward but if you’d like us to attend the wedding, it would be our pleasure.” She says, understanding Cosette’s recently founded concerns. “We might not have known each other long, but we are almost family now, really. René is not the marrying type,” she says, fond, eyes darting up in the direction of her son’s bedroom. “I do not have a daughter of my own, and I know you must miss your mother at a time like this.”

 At this, Cosette cannot contain herself; she steps down toward Flora and all decorum tossed aside, embraces the older woman with everything in her, appreciation for this her openness and affection flooding through her. Flora hugs her back with immense warmth, a tight, close embrace, and Cosette smells her perfume, feels the loose tendrils that have come loose from her up-do brushing against her cheek. Cosette imagines a young Enjolras in this very embrace, sees how the love within it could have spurred him forth to become the man he is. There’s safety in it, but there’s also encouragement, acceptance.

For a moment, she knows what it feels like to have a mother.

* * *

Feuilly makes his way toward the back portico, his favorite place to read; the sun hits just right, a private nook in the sometimes chaotic hum of this house. Enjolras is the only one who’s actually found him there, having stumbled upon it accidentally looking for some solitude himself a few days ago. Feuilly hasn’t had much time to himself the past few days with all the activity of Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s families arriving, with everything that’s happened the past two weeks. He walks out into the outdoors, the warm morning summer air filling his lungs as he breathes in deep.

It’s odd, he muses, seeing his friends among their biological families. They’d all formed such a strong familial bond of their own with each other that it was sometimes easy to forget his friends had parents or siblings, that they hadn’t always lived in Paris and met in the Musain and the Corinthe, plotting revolution, planning for a better France, a better world. If he’s honest with himself, and he tries to be honest with himself, seeing Enjolras and Courfeyrac with their parents and grandparents, seeing Combeferre’s letter and parcel from his, even seeing Marius’ letter from his grandfather, sends a twinge through the place in his heart that never quite healed when his mother and father died so many years ago. It is their specific presence he misses even as memories fade into watercolor, but it is also the very idea of having a family, people who would worry over him going to the barricade, would mourn him in death.

_You do have a family,_ he reminds himself. _These friends are your family, and they have made that clear. They will always be your family._

He smiles slightly at the truth of it; the pang of his missing parents lessens but it does not entirely leave him. He suspects it never will; it’s an ebb and flow of a thing, worse at times, easier at others.  Dazzled by the glint of sunlight reflecting from a window, for a minute he thinks he sees Enjolras heading toward him before he sees the broad shoulders, the lack of a cane, the greying hair, but it is Monsieur Enjolras, looking awkward.

“Oh, Feuilly,” he says, still holding the door. “I didn’t realize anyone was out here. I’ll come back later.”

“It’s all right Monsieur,” Feuilly says, welcoming, privately smiling to himself that both father and son have now located his little hideaway. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Aubry hesitates for a moment, and it strikes Feuilly that the man’s stride is exactly like his son’s; firm, precise, and purposeful. Aubry sits down crossing his legs and looking at Feuilly for a moment as if contemplating him.

“It’s rather nice out here,” Aubry comments, gazing around the flowers so dutifully tended by Madame Bellard, and up at the near cloudless blue sky. “Not too hot yet either.”

Feuilly nods. “It’s quiet here, a bit secluded. Reminds me a bit of some of the parks I used to go to in Paris, on the edge of the city.”

“I enjoy Paris in short jaunts,” Aubry says, glancing back at Feuilly now. “But when I finished my course at university I was pleased to come back home to Marseilles. It’s urban enough without being as hectic as Paris. Were you a student?”

“I’m afraid not,” Feuilly says, but though he blanches a little, he promised himself long ago he wouldn’t himself be embarrassed about the lack of education opportunities offered him because of his significant lack of money. He’d made his way up in the world from being a homeless gamin on the streets, had taught himself so much, and he wouldn’t be ashamed. “I was a worker in Paris, a fan-painter.”

“The artistic type then,” Aubry says, and Feuilly can tell he’s sincerely trying to get to know him. “I’m quite envious; I was never able to even draw well. My son told me yesterday that you know a great deal about the politics and history of other countries?”

Feuilly can’t help but smile again; Enjolras, he’s found, speaks about him a great deal, but he’s also pleased to know that he and his father are making progress after the shouting match at dinner a few nights ago. He doesn’t recall ever having seen Enjolras like that, has never seen Enjolras break down into tears he cannot control, his father’s anger breaking the damn of everything that’s happened since the barricade, since the deaths of their friends.

“I think we have a great deal to learn from other nationalities,” Feuilly says. “I’ve always felt, too, that freedom should not exist only in France, it should exist everywhere.”

“I believe all of you young men think beyond what I’m capable of,” Aubry says, surprising Feuilly with his honesty, his bluntness, when he gives the impression of being a very private man who does not easily peel away his layers in front of new acquaintances. “There is such passion in all of you. I can tell René admires each and every one of you.”

Feuilly’s smile grows, but he can tell there is a hidden question on the edge of Aubry’s words.

“Is there,” Feuilly begins, slow so that Aubry has time for escape from the conversation if he so chooses, a second to catch Feuilly’s drift. “Something you’d like to talk about? Or ask me?” Feuilly feels sufficiently awkward, but he ploughs forward anyway, reading the writing in Aubry’s eyes. He is, admittedly, curious about this man, his friend’s father, because someone like Enjolras is not a person one meets every day.

“It’s silly of me,” Aubry protests with a wave of his hand.

“I’m sure it isn’t monsieur,” Feuilly answers. “Forgive me, but you don’t really seem the silly type to me. Everyone is prone to some silliness of course, but in general, though I don’t know you well, and I don’t believe that anything you might want to ask me right now would be silly.”

Aubry smiles, a melancholy he’s seen flash in Enjolras’ eyes in Aubry’s own; it’s there for different reasons, but it look so similar in the familiar shades of blue.

“I apologize,” Aubry says, looking back up at him, expression growing serious again. “You sounded a bit like René just then.”

“We have some similarities between us,” Feuilly says, fond. “And I’m honored to say so.”

“Can you tell me about him?” Aubry very nearly blurts out, a stark contrast from how Feuilly’s seen him comport himself, obviously aside from the fight a few nights ago. “About René? I’ve spoken to him over the past few days, and I speak to my wife, but all of you have been the biggest part of his life since he was eighteen and went to Paris.”

For a moment, Feuilly isn’t entirely certain of what he should say; what does one say to his friend’s estranged father with whom ties have only been recently, precariously mended? Feuilly thinks of his own father, the tall, round, bearded man who laughed with such unrelenting mirth, the skin of his hands cracked from his work. Despite their hard circumstances he was a happy man, similar to Joly in personality and Bahorel in build. That was why the memory of him shouting in pain after he’d been stabbed has forever imprinted itself on Feuilly’s mind. He was a much different man from the one sitting across from him, with his carefully tailored clothes, his greying blond hair tied back, his hands smooth and free from callouses. But he’s still a father, and suddenly, Feuilly knows how to proceed.

“Your son is one of my greatest friends,” Feuilly begins, meeting Aubry’s eyes directly, but entirely unsure he is right person for this. Courfeyrac would know what to say. Combeferre, in his infinite wisdom. Even Grantaire. None the less, he is the one who is here. He thinks, with a pang, of Jehan, and knows then how to continue. “I’m not sure I could do justice to him, and I am not a great one with words, so I’ll borrow them from men wiser and more eloquent than myself. He’d do anything for all of us, and has done. Willing to sacrifice his life for us on more than one occaision. Faced down an army in our defense. He sent fathers away from the barricade so that their families might not be without them. Courfeyrac once said he’s so full of love and compassion, for us, and people he’s never met, that he’s liable to burst with it. We are his lieutenants, as loyal to him as he is to us, and I will continue to be loyal to him as leader and a friend until he or I pass away. And that, he, is something to be proud of.”

Feuilly’s scarcely noticed that he’s short of breath now, having not remembered to come up for air during his discourse. Aubry’s eyes are wet, but only for a split second; he wipes them with his sleeve so quickly Feuilly hardly sees him.

“He was almost electric as a child,” Aubry says, soft. “He was a child of course, and he did childish things, but as he grew older I saw the intensity in him, knew inherently that he would not be mine forever, that he was meant for something bigger, something impactful. He went to Paris and got involved in republicanism and I knew it was true. He got in deeper and deeper and I feared he would die. He nearly did.”

“We were all willing to die,” Feuilly says, precise with his words for concern of saying the wrong thing. “We did not want to, we did not seek it, but we were willing. We took that mantle up together, and we are devastated at the loss of our friends, of four in particular, because they are like our family. But I do not pretend to imagine what it is like to be a parent and have a child risk his life in the revolution. My parents died when I was a child, so I did not have to worry about leaving anyone behind. It’s something I know Enjolras thought about, and he never wanted to hurt you, never wanted to hurt his mother, but trust me when I tell you, monsieur, he was meant for this cause. The world is better for him fighting for it, even if this particular revolt was not won. Trying is a victory in itself, and people will remember the ones who lost, because they inspired future generations to revolt again. And…” Feuilly pauses, almost finished, but this is important, and he knows it is true. “And _we_ will try again. Perhaps in different avenues that before, but we will try nonetheless.”

Aubry glances away, hurt flashing in his eyes, but Feuilly thinks the older man understands now, being here in this house with all his son’s surviving lieutenants. The fight, the cause is part of them, a part of Enjolras that will never die.

“The day of our last fight,” Aubry says, surprising Feuilly. “The day I struck my son for the first and last time, he told me that he no longer needed or wanted my approval, that he had the approval of much more honorable men. And I know he meant all of you.” Aubry sighs, the memory clear in his eyes. “But I cannot blame him for such a response, not when I told him that I never believed I’d have a son who would disappoint me so massively, words I didn’t mean and words I regret to this day. I wanted this to be simple,” Aubry admits, and he’s wearing that melancholy again, though he looks a little less desperate than a few moments ago. “But none of it is simple. My son is not simple.”

“No,” Feuilly replies, shaking his head. “He isn’t. But none of us are, really.”

“You all know him so much better than I do,” Aubry answers, wistful. “I do not think I shall ever understand him as all of you do, even as well as Flora does, or Violet. Even if I wished to. He is beyond me, somehow.”

“Sometimes Enjolras is a bit beyond everyone,” Feuilly says, his smile growing wider. “But he is still very much human, still very much your son, monsieur. Do not doubt the progress the two of you have made. He wants you in his life. It was not easy for him to walk away from you, he told me that himself, not long after. But at the time he felt he had to, no matter how much it hurt him, hurt you. He hated doing it. He was very angry, but he was also immensely sad.”

Aubry doesn’t answer right away, eyes locked on his fingers in thought. Feuilly takes a long look at him; Enjolras is not as broad as Aubry, he’s built a bit more like his mother, though he’s taller than both his parents. But the face, the cheekbones, the intense gaze, the loose, wavy curls, those are all Enjolras’, and for a moment Feuilly sees what Enjolras might look like as an older man, should he live to see those days. In a sudden rush of feeling, Feuilly wants his friend to grow to an old age, because though Enjolras sometimes seems as a flash of hot flame, he also exists as a bright, long-lasting light, growing and expanding throughout the years.

“I will not,” Aubry finally says. “I am determined to renew my relationship with him. I also know, however, that his place…his place is here.”

Silence falls again for a moment, and Feuilly reads the specific concern in Aubry’s expression.

“We will take good care of him monsieur,” Feuilly says in almost a whisper. “He hardly requires it, but when he does, we will be there.”

“Thank you,” Aubry says in a whisper, and Feuilly sees him dart back behind his mask of propriety; he sits up straighter, smooths out his jacket, and clears his throat. But Feuilly is eager to pull him back out, to talk just a bit more, because he cannot bear to see the fragile progress between Enjolras and his father disintegrate. With the loss of his own parents came a fervent desire to see others close with their own, because he knew what it was to go without. This did not mean, of course, that he would encourage Gavroche to return to his wretched parents or Enjolras to bow down to the wishes of his father that did not comply with his own, but there is hope in this situation, he sees it, and that is something he and Enjolras share in common, looking for the pinprick of light even in the darkest, bleakest night.

“Enjolras shares his soul with us, but I have only heard a few stories from his childhood, and mostly after Courfeyrac or Bossuet teased and prodded him into submission,” Feuilly remarks, noticing Aubry’s eyes flickering up to him before training themselves back on the ground, looking embarrassed that he has been so vulnerable in front of someone he only met a few days ago.  “I’m sure there must be some very memorable ones.”

A wistful look passes across Aubry’s face, and finally he meets Feuilly’s eyes again.

“You want to hear about René’s childhood?” he asks. “Surely you could simply ask him, I don’t think he has anything to hide or be ashamed of.”

“I’m interested in your perspective,” Feuilly replies. “The stories of someone who knew the boy before he was the man I met at eighteen.”

Aubry pauses for a moment, thinking, then ploughs forward with a determined sigh.

“He was a quiet child, always reading, always trying to figure out the world around him, but when he was excited he would speak incessantly, and he laughed much. Everything was an adventure; learning to ride, learning to shoot, his studies, though I did sometimes catch him daydreaming, a serious expression on his face as if he saw something beyond the windows that I could not.”

“That sounds like him,” Feuilly says, encouraging him to continue.

“Though he still remained in some ways the same, as he got older I saw him grow grave,” Aubry answers. “But it was an extension of the fire I saw spark in his eyes one day when we went to the market and he saw a police officer chasing down some boys who’d stolen, and he offered to pay for the food himself because he saw the boys were poor. Several years later I saw that same look in his eyes as he poured over some of the books his grandmother gave him, books his mother approved of and I did not, Rousseau and Paine, I believe it was, and his look was so intense I thought it might burn through the pages, but there were still tears welling within them. It seems such a fleeting moment, but it’s one I don’t know that I’ll ever forget. I think it was the moment I lost him.”

“The boy you knew still exists,” Feuilly tries, grabbing onto the threads of the memory as he feels Aubry slip away again. “He just discovered other parts of himself as he grew older, found his purpose, and I think most of us in Les Amis de l’abc can relate to that. Enjolras is grave sometimes, yes, he is serious and he is utterly passionate and driven. But he still laughs at Courfeyrac’s terrible puns, smiles at the antics of our friends, and he still very much has that excitement, that curiosity. He’s expanded himself, not excluded who he was as a younger man.”

There’s silence once more, and Aubry retreats into himself, looking out into the distance of the grounds the same way Feuilly’s seen Enjolras do, the same way which Aubry described just a few moments ago. But rather than the stoic, cold expression Feuilly saw when he first walked into the living room upon arriving a week ago, an expression that was already cracking from the concern in his eyes, there is the expression of a man who has shattered entirely, but not necessarily in a negative way; he shattered the walls around himself in order to rebuild his relationship with his son, and piece by piece, he’s trying.

“And now?” Aubry asks softly. “How does he soldier on, a fugitive?”

“Enjolras is nothing if not adaptable,” Feuilly says, reaching out very hesitantly to place a hand on Aubry’s arm. “He might appear unmoving, and in his core ideals, he is, but he adapts to situations, to new ideas.” Feuilly stops himself mentioning Valjean, who is a fugitive himself, who is an irreplaceable resource, who will undoubtedly help Enjolras adjust as he has helped them all along, but his secret is one they must keep.

To Feuilly’s surprise, Aubry ever so lightly squeezes his arm in return before releasing him with a tight, sad smile that is nevertheless laced with hope.

“I must go find my wife, discuss with her the possibility of staying for a few more days,” Aubry says, rising from his bench. “But you are kind to listen to an old father’s musings. Thank you. And thank you for your friendship with my son. All of you are priceless to him.”

“And he to us,” Feuilly says, watching Aubry walk away. “You are most welcome, monsieur.”

With one final smile Aubry goes back into the house, walking as gracefully as his son. As he goes, Feuilly once again feels a wave of missing his own parents, but the final image in his head is not the one that so often haunts him, the one of his mother bent over his father’s dying form, tears sliding down her face as she whispered words of empty comfort into his ear. Instead, it’s the one of the Christmas previously, when his parents proudly presented him a new coat and new boots, purchased from money they’d saved up for months; his old ones had grown threadbare, but there hadn’t been money for replacements. He remembers his parents’ proud smiles, the warm feeling of the coat on his arms, the boots on his feet. He holds on to that memory, hoping that Enjolras, Aubry, and Flora can hold onto memories like that of their own.

* * *

Valjean doesn’t recall ever smiling so much. He remembers first laying eyes on Cosette, on taking her away from the Thenardiers, remember the bubble of happiness expanding in his chest as he watched her grow and blossom from the shy, scared little girl he took in as his own to the intelligent, empathetic, lively young woman he now knows. But all of that was always marred by looking behind him, fearing Javert on his trail, fearing his own inner soul, worried that he might one day return to inhabiting that angry, hateful place in his soul that had overtaken him during his years in prison, fearing it because he felt it emerge when he continued seeing injustices everywhere he went, though he did his best to help anyone where he could.

But now as he sees Cosette sitting across from him with her Marius, gleefully planning her wedding, his life-long journey to see her happy, to see her given a proper chance at life despite beginnings society might deem unfit, finally almost complete. A part of him was certain he would never see her continue on into that part of her life, was certain his life source was tied to the completion of that task, but then God presented him with these young men, with that barricade and its aftermath, and not only was he given new purpose, but that purpose allowed him to see his Cosette married, to continue to watch her grow into a woman. 

“M. Gillenormand says he’s set to come down and visit us in a few weeks,” Cosette is saying. “So that we can finalize the plans at St. Jerome’s, and if it’s all right with you, he’d like to invite some family friends to come down from Avignon to the wedding, and Madame Enjolras, Madame Gagne, and Madame de Courfeyrac all said they would love to attend if that’s suitable to you, Papa.” Cosette chatters away, eyes sparkling with joy.

“Of course, my girl,” Valjean answers. “It is your wedding and M. Gillenormand has allowed us use of this house. I’m pleased to do anything for either of you. You as well, Marius.”

Cosette smiles wider, kissing Valjean’s cheek, and a contentment so great fills him that he very nearly cannot breathe for how strong it is. He never expected to feel like this, never expected to have a life like this.

“We also thought we might go to Avignon soon and select some wedding suits. Courfeyrac is on about green waistcoats because, as he says, they match his eyes, but I might be considering blue,” Marius says, and Valjean smiles at future son-in-law, a smart, sweet young man who Valjean likes a great deal, but most of all, who makes Cosette smile brighter than he’s ever seen. He’s a bit awkward sometimes, but he’s made of the same romantic, intrepid cloth Cosette is, a spark of adventure in his eyes. Marius too, grew up without his biological parents, raised largely by his grandfather as Cosette was raised by Valjean, and it’s something Valjean knows they’ve bonded over.

_Fantine_ , he thinks silently. _You’d be so proud of your daughter, so relieved to see her have a life you never could, a life that society never allowed you to have._

“We could also assist you in finding something for the wedding,” Marius continues, meeting Valjean’s eye. “If you’d like that.”

Valjean nods, appreciating his phrasing; he’s always picked out simple clothes, clothes that suited his purpose, but he recalls Cosette’s first request for new dresses, and his utter loss of how to proceed because he knew nothing of fashion in general, let alone young ladies’ fashion. He has clothes aplenty, but nothing suited to a wedding, especially not his daughter’s wedding, and humble though he is, he would like find proper dress for such an occasion, and he’s certain these young men he’s come to care for very much will be excellent at helping him.

“I would like that,” he says, reaching out to press Marius’ hand. “Say the word, my boy, and I will gladly go with you.”

“I was rather hoping Enjolras can go with us as well,” Marius says, his smile faltering but still holding steady. “His leg is growing stronger and he’s eager to see Avignon if he’s able. But, there is the question of whether he’d be recognized. Courfeyrac jokes of disguises, but it is a real concern to all of us, something we trust your judgment on.”

“He’s been so cooped up,” Cosette agrees, lips pursed in concern. “But is it safe yet, to take him out into the open? His picture was in the papers here, too, I know.”

“I’m not sure,” Valjean answers honestly, pushing past his normal impulse for secrecy. “I shall need to ascertain the climate in Avignon, read the papers. He’s been pronounced dead of course, so if anyone recognizes him it might not register, but we might need to wait a while, yet.”

“We want to wait to have the wedding until he can attend,” Cosette says, meeting eyes with Marius, who nods fervently.

“Something can be arranged, disguise if we have to, as you are both adamant he be at the ceremony.” Valjean says, trying to reassure even as his mind floods with consequences and what can be done to limit the risk. He never expected he might use his experience as a fugitive to help someone else in a similar situation, but he’s happy to have the chance, happy to prevent Enjolras ever experiencing the galleys, experiencing prison, even if he must look behind him at every turn, calculate every move.

“He means too much to the both of us,” Marius agrees, solemn now.

Out of the corner of his eye, as if the mention of their son drew them into his vision, Valjean sees Flora, Aubry, and Violet go past the window, walking around the grounds, looking deep in conversation.

“If the two of you will kindly pardon me,” Valjean says, looking back at both of them. “I have something I need to discuss with Enjolras’ family and you’ve just reminded me of it.”

“Of course Papa,” Cosette says, patting his knee.

They bid him goodbye, turning back once more to each other and talking excitedly away, the pleasant sound fading away as Valjean opens the door and closes it behind him, walking swiftly to catch up with the trio. Flora is arm in arm with her mother, Aubry a few paces behind, hands clasped behind his back, looking pensive. They pause and draw together, as he calls to them.

“Do you mind if I join your walk?” he asks, suddenly wondering if he should have given in to his impulse to follow them. But at Flora’s open smile that sensation ebbs away, though he still feels a tad anxious.

“Not at all,” she says, gesturing him forward. “Rene has banished us out from under his feet while Combeferre starts his rehabilitation. Insisted we take advantage of the lovely weather today.”

“He is in good hands with Combeferre. Walking will be part of his rehabilitation  soon enough, I imagine,” Valjean says, folding his hands together behind his back, eyes falling on Aubry even as he speaks to Flora. The man’s eyes dart back and forth from the ground to Valjean’s face, quiet and obviously hesitant to speak up just yet. There’s a hint of distrust in his eyes, mixed with a sort of jealousy, though it doesn’t seem threatening. There’s also a very strong curiosity there, a question.

“Combeferre’s mentioned taking Enjolras to see a local doctor, just as a second opinion,” Valjean continues. “Once he does some investigation into the local practices in town.”

“Will he tell the doctor they were bullet wounds?” Flora asks, frowning. “Would that not give something away?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Valjean replies, looking at Flora in assurance before once again looking at Aubry, noticing that Violet too, is watching her son in law. “It could have been a hunting accident or something of that sort; Perhaps, well, perhaps even a solider in the National Guard, injured quashing the rebellion.”

Violet scoffs, laughing lightly, “I cannot think of an explanation Rene would find more distasteful.”

Valjean inclines his head, it is quite true, but there are distasteful things Enjolras will have to endure to keep himself safe over the next few years, as he well knows. This heralds discussion over the various options Enjolras might consider as an explanation of his injuries, both undeniably bullet wounds, as they walk along, Violet and Flora pulling ahead once more as Valjean falls into step with Aubry, falling behind, and falling into tense silence.

 “You are quiet monsieur,” Valjean begins.

“I was simply thinking on Rene,” he says, vague.

“Of course.”

 “Is there a plan in place,” he begins, looking Valjean up and down, but there is no malice in his gaze, only curiosity, protectiveness. “To explain what you are all doing here in this house, who Rene is, as he obviously can no longer go by his own name, aside from when he is among us, among all of you.”

Valjean gazes back at him, and despite their differences, despite the fact that Aubry is obviously a bit jealous of Valjean’s own new relationship with Enjolras, he sees the desperation of a father in the other man’s eyes, the desperation to help his long estranged son, to figure out a way to adapt to this utterly foreign, frightening situation. He imagines himself in Aubry’s place, imagines something similar happening to Cosette. It is not hard to put himself in Aubry’s shoes, because not only does he empathize as a father, but also because he too, cares for Enjolras, finds himself filled with paternal feelings when thinking of Enjolras, when thinking of all the young men he’s taken under his wing. He wonders whether Aubry is jealous; his relationship with his son might be under repair, but it is still strained, and Valjean feels no such strain with the younger Enjolras, there is an ease and an understanding between them, despite the brevity of their relationship.

“We’ve spoken about it,” Valjean says. “Nothing is yet set in stone, but the most iron clad stories are based in truth. One day Marius will inherit this house. We plan to say that he has chosen to take up this ancestral country seat now he is to be married. And with his new wife comes her aging father, and convalescent…brother.” He doesn’t mean to hesitate, but the implication of Enjolras posing as Cosette’s brother is clear. Her brother, and his son. “Gavroche is my orphaned nephew, the other boys family friends searching for employment here in Avignon, after completing their studies in Paris and are lodging with us. I find that unless people suspect something, they do not ask many questions; I hope to give them no reason to suspect anything.”

 “He is to take your name.” Aubry says directly.

“He is still your son.” Valjean replies just as direct. He has never had a son, never had a name to be proud of, to pass on, but just as he knows that is not precisely what Aubry means, he is undeniably pleased to be have the chance now.

“Is he?” Aubry asks sharply, drawing to a halt, and in front of them, Valjean sees Flora look back at them briefly from her place next to Violet.

“In everything but name. To keep him safe.”

Aubry passes a hand over his face, “To keep him safe.”

 “None of this makes him any less your son,” Valjean says, handling his words as if they are china, fragile, and easily breakable. “I only care a great deal about him, about all of these young men. They are exceptional, and have forged places in my heart. All of you are welcome here any time, for as long as you like. We are all family now, in a sense. Though I admit I never expected such a large, assorted brood. But I cannot deny that I am happy to have them, despite the circumstance.”

 “My pride,” Aubry beings, clearly gathering himself, standing up straighter from his uncharacteristically hunched posture. “And even admittedly, my jealousy, prevented me from thanking you properly, monsieur, and I apologize for that.” He puts his hand out, an offering of peace, an offering, perhaps, of friendship. “So thank you, Monsieur Fauchelevent, for saving my son’s life. There is quite literally nothing I can do to ever repay you for that.” Aubry ceases speaking, clearing his throat against an oncoming tide of emotion and squaring his shoulders.

Valjean takes his hand in a warm, tight grasp, shaking it and squeezing ever so lightly in reassuring sentiment.

“He will have a life,” Valjean says, a bit overcome by his own emotions now, thinking of himself, of Cosette, of Fantine, of Enjolras, of Marius, of Gavroche, of Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Grantaire and Feuilly. There’s even a fleeting image of Javert. “It might not be ordinary, it might not be normal or what he or you expected, but it will be a life. We will all make sure of it. He will make sure of it, because he will turn all of this horror into something productive, something to further the cause he fought for.”

“You know him so well already,” Aubry says, a hint of a smile on his face, the skin crinkling at the edges of his eyes the same way his son’s does.

“He is unashamed to be himself,” Valjean replies as they start walking once more. “So that makes it easy to know him. He’s is complex, but so are we all.”

“Wise words, monsieur.”

They turn and begin walking again, catching up with the ladies; Aubry walks up beside Flora, taking her hand in his own, fingers interlacing together tightly, and Valjean steps up to Violet as she engages him in conversation, the sun just starting to set behind them. 


	33. Musings on the Past, Visions of the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by ariadneslostthread.

The moment Combeferre walks into his bedroom, Enjolras knows he’s up to something.

When Combeferre has an idea, a plan, or anything of the sort, there’s a particular mischievous, almost manic sparkle in his eyes, a half-smile forming on his lips as if he’s just thought of the grandest thing but isn’t quite ready to divulge.

“What is it then?” Enjolras asks, raising one eyebrow and crossing his arms over his chest. “I see now that you’ve had some proper rest you’re up to something.”

“What do you mean?” Combeferre asks, genuinely puzzled, unaware that his facial expression gives him away.

“I am very well aware of that look in your eye,” Enjolras replies. “You’ve either had an idea which I sincerely am sure is brilliant, or you’re about to suggest something to me you think I might have an amusing reaction to. I must say, Courfeyrac is rubbing off on you.”

Combeferre puts a mock-dramatic hand to his chest in feigned offense. “Courfeyrac would say that’s a wonderful thing, and I must admit, we should all have a bit more Courfeyrac within us. But of course don’t tell him I said that, it will only encourage him.” Combeferre smiles, knowing full well that Enjolras will tell Courfeyrac, and he’s meant to do just that.

“But you are straying away from the topic at hand,” Enjolras insists. “You said you were coming in to check on my bandages and start preliminary work on my rehabilitation, yet you are sitting in that chair.”

At this, Combeferre grows serious again, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for an argument.

“I am still sitting here because we are waiting on someone.”

Combeferre looks uneasy, Enjolras notices, an odd occurrence between the two of them. He has no trouble speaking about things he thinks Enjolras might disagree about, because even when they do, their discourses are productive and amenable. Indeed, the very foundation of their friendship is about debating and learning from each other. Combeferre grows anxious sometimes, he is certainly a worrier, but it takes a great deal to ruffle him. It is not ruffled he appears, exactly, Enjolras muses, but... well, he’s not altogether sure.

“Waiting on who?” Enjolras asks, feeling uneasy himself, feeling his heart start beating rapidly, reminiscent of the attacks of nerves he experienced so frequently a few days ago, but which have dwindled over the past few days, much to his relief.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says, looking him directly in the eyes when he speaks.

Enjolras pulls back, heartily surprised.

“Grantaire?” he questions. “Whatever for?”

“Because I have asked him to assist me with your rehabilitation,” Combeferre says, tone even, comforting even as he delivers this shocking information.

Enjolras simply looks at him, lost for words at Combeferre’s strategy.

“He is a talented at Savate, at single sticks, at fencing,” Combeferre says by way of explanation. “An athlete, in other words. You know this, it’s how you met him when Bahorel took you out to teach you Canne de Combat.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Well, later on these physical activities will be good for building up the strength in your shoulder and leg both,” Combeferre continues. “You are apt at them, Grantaire is apt at them, so I thought it prudent to bring him in.”

“Why does he need to be here for the initial stages?” Enjolras asks, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable. He’s been emotionally open with all of his friends, but his physical vulnerability, aside from a few isolated instances, has been limited to Combeferre’s eyes only. Yes, Feuilly convinced him into the Laudanum, Grantaire carried him a fair few times, and Courfeyrac has been present to assist Combeferre occasionally, but only Combeferre has seen his wounds in their full naked horror, the holes distorting his skin, only Combeferre has seen his truest tears of pain, only Combeferre has helped him get dressed when he could not do so himself.

“Because I know that for anyone this would be a precarious process, and I thought it might be best for you if he was involved from the beginning,” Combeferre says. “It involves a large amount of vulnerability on your part, and I felt like bringing a new person, even a friend into the process further along might be jarring. So I thought I might let him learn how to change the bandages, as a start.”

“I’m not an experiment,” Enjolras snaps.

He regrets it almost instantly, but he doesn’t take it back, eyes flickering up to Combeferre before pointedly looking away. He’s a grown man, and this entire thing makes him feel like a child. He knows it’s irrational, he knows they aren’t treating him that way on purpose, but it’s how he feels, and his emotions have been waging war on him ever since the barricade fell. He feels Combeferre’s hand cover his own, and he looks up again.

“No, you’re not, and I’m sorry if I made you feel that way,” Combeferre says, holding his gaze.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Enjolras admits. “I was just surprised. And a bit frightened, in full disclosure.”

“I can tell him I’ve changed my mind if you’re really against the idea,” Combeferre offers. “But I do believe this would be helpful.”

Enjolras hesitates: for all the times he has insisted to Grantaire that he is a mere mortal, he stalls at the image of being so exposed in front of him. But if the two of them are to move forward, if he’s to move forward with his own rehabilitation, he tells himself he must do this, because Combeferre’s suggestion in this arena are rarely, if ever, wrong.

“No,” Enjolras says, more sure now even though the much hated anxiety pumps through his veins, though it’s milder than in past days. “You’re right.”

“You are a courageous man, as always,” Combeferre says, placing one hand on his back.

There’s a knock at the door as he speaks, and Grantaire enters, deftly closing the door behind him.

“Hello you two,” he says, putting on a less sardonic version of his usual smile, looking uneasy, but obviously trying to hide it. He looks at Combeferre, who barely inches his head in a nod, before looking at Enjolras. “It appears I am to be Dr. Combeferre’s physician in training. Does that sit well with you?”

He’s asking permission, Enjolras realizes, checking one final time that this is all right.

“Perfectly,” Enjolras says, though he feels far from perfect, but pushes through his nerves.

“I hear we’ll be possibly be doing Savate and fencing,” Grantaire says, and there’s a familiar teasing in his tone. “Once you’re better I shall have to challenge you to a proper test of our abilities. What do you say?”

“Accepted,” Enjolras says, unable to prevent himself from smiling even as his hands shake in anticipation of the showcasing of physical vulnerability he knows is coming.

Combeferre smiles at the two them, shaking his head; there might have been a time when this was impossible, and Enjolras isn’t foolish enough to believe Combeferre isn’t using this opportunity to encourage his and Grantaire’s growing bond. There’s always been a connection between them, but now it’s much clearer, more solid.

“Let’s start with your leg, all right Enjolras?” Combeferre asks, leading him through every step of this process with careful attention and empathy as Enjolras always led the Amis to the revolution. “Seems prudent to do the most difficult part first.”

Enjolras nods in agreement, moving to place his legs over the side of the bed before standing on the floor, one hand grasping the bed post so he can slide his trousers off, a habit to which he’s become accustomed when he wanted to dress without calling his friends’ assistance.

He breathes in as he lets them fall to the floor, left only in his shirt and underthings as Combeferre grasps his arm when he falters, unable to put full weight onto his injured leg without pain. He shifts back onto the bed, stretching his injured leg out, keeping his other leg pulled in. Combeferre moves to retrieve the fresh bandages and the salve of camphor out of the drawer. Enjolras watches Grantaire’s eyes lock onto the wound, the bullet shaped hole in his leg, still red from the remaining residual bleeding, the bruise around it staining his skin purple and green. There’s new skin covering half the wound now, which almost makes it look more grotesque than when it was a fully open wound. It is not the physical scarring Enjolras mind, but the constant reminder every time he sees if of the moment when he stood staring at Prouvaire’s body, his own hand drenched in blood as he tried to cover his friends’ escape, the white hot pain of the bullet ripping through his muscle and remaining there, lodged inside.

“Pain?” Combeferre asks, fully pulling off the current bandage as Grantaire stands by his side, rapt at attention. He still looks uneasy and he cannot quite meet Enjolras’ eye, but his hands are steady. “Do you need the Laudanum?”

“No,” Enjolras answers honestly. “It twinges, but the dose from earlier is holding out.”

“All right,” Combeferre says, looking at Grantaire over the rims of his spectacles, the salve in hand now that the bandage is removed. “This is to help prevent infection, which obviously none of us want occurring again.” He takes some of the substance on his fingers before dabbing on the leg wound, which is uncomfortable, but not as overtly painful as it was the first few times.

He dabs on a bit more, catching Enjolras’ eye, reassuring even in silence as Grantaire watches.

“You don’t need much,” Combeferre tells Grantaire. “I’m just using it until the wound fully closes up. Now, would either of you mind Grantaire trying out wrapping the bandage?”

“No,” they both answer at once, softly, and Combeferre places the bandages in Grantaire’s hands.

“It needs to be tight, but not so tight that it’s painful or cuts off circulation,” Combeferre says. “You’ll have to work with Enjolras to make sure it’s neither of those things.”

Grantaire nods, switching positions with Combeferre and finally looking at Enjolras properly.

“My hands aren’t shaking anymore,” he says, that same teasing in his tone, but it’s surprisingly gentle, too. “At least not much. I don’t think they’d trust me to do surgery, but this I can do.”

“I have all the faith in the world,” Enjolras replies, bending his leg up at the knee so that Grantaire can wrap the bandage around. As much as he hates it he’s still trembling, but less so than a few minutes ago, his heart slowing as he grows used to the situation.

“Too tight?” Grantaire asks before tying off the bandage. “Too loose?”

“Just right,” Enjolras says. “It seems you’re a natural.”

“Perhaps I was a nurse in a former life,” Grantaire says, a chuckle on his lips.

Combeferre keeps to the side as Grantaire keeps Enjolras steady while he puts his trousers back on, his touch different, but nearly as careful as Combeferre’s own. Enjolras is about to remove his shirt so that they can check on his shoulder bandage, when there’s a jarring, loud knock at the door, a knock he knows is Courfeyrac’s nonetheless.

“Yes?” Combeferre calls, because even in urgency Courfeyrac knows they are changing bandages and doesn’t want to burst in uninvited.

At Combeferre’s words Courfeyrac pushes the door fully open, wringing his hat in his hands.

“Gavroche,” he says without ceremony. “We can’t find him.”

Silence smacks down between the four of them, and for a moment, none of them move, the only sound in the room Courfeyrac’s panting from dashing up the stairs at breakneck speed.

“Missing?” Enjolras says, shaking it off first.

“For given meaning of the word, yes,” Courfeyrac says, twisting his hat in his hands, a sure sign he is most concerned. He might lose his hats continually, but while he still possesses them it can never be said he does not take proper care of them. “No one’s seen him for hours and he’s not outside or in any of his usual spots.”

“He must be somewhere, surely,” Combeferre says, ever the voice of calm, but his mouth forms a thin line of worry. “And if he is not in the grounds he can’t have gotten far.” He stops abruptly, because this is possibly very untrue, which Combeferre knows. Gavroche is a massively independent child, he was in the business of raising himself until he ended up here with all of them, and he could have easily snuck out the door and toward Avignon. But the questioned remained: why would he do that?

“Do you think he left the grounds entirely?” Grantaire asks, eyes darting about nervously, hands going behind his back as a defense against showcasing his emotion too much.

“We must not let our heads get away with us,” Combeferre continues. “He could easily still be anywhere in this gargantuan house.”

“Let us look for him then,” Enjolras says, gingerly sliding his jacket back on as his shoulder twinges, seizing his cane from where it’s propped up against the wall.

Silence falls again, of a different sort this time, and Enjolras feels three sets of eyes on him.

“What?” he asks, staring around at the trio. “Why are we waiting?”

“You should probably wait for us here,” Combeferre says ever so gently. “We may have to look out around the grounds, go up and down the stairs, and as pleased as I am to start rehabilitating your leg, all of that would be too much just yet.”

Part of Enjolras wants to argue with him, wants to tell them to stop looking at him like he’s an invalid, but he bites the words back down because they are born of his own frustrations rather than by any true judgments from his friends. Gavroche, he reasons, is more important than his protests that he is perfectly able to at least assist with the search. He meets Combeferre’s eyes and nods in response, feeling both Combeferre and Grantaire’s hands on his shoulders, seeing Courfeyrac’s smile, before all of them depart.

“Courfeyrac, come out to the grounds with me if you would,” he hears Combeferre say. “Grantaire, if you could please search all unused rooms.”

Their voices fade and Enjolras waits for the footsteps to die off before he grabs his cane again, walking quietly to the door and listening for the sounds of anyone coming. When he hears nothing, he steps out into the hallway. He is determined to help look for Gavroche himself, even if his body will only allow him a short while.

He pauses for a moment, thinking. He hasn’t been a ten year old boy for a long while, and he never experienced Gavroche’s circumstances, but there are similarities between them; a marked stubbornness, for one, a need for time alone if feeling a bit overwhelmed, a passionate, unending loyalty to those he trusts, and a definite rebellious spirit. He walks slowly along the hallway in the opposite direction of the others, thinking of any place Gavroche might have hidden. He won’t be in the library or the garden: those two places are too often occupied by everyone. If he were in the parlor or the drawing room he wouldn’t be missing in the first place. The others have already made their way outside and Grantaire to the unused bedrooms. Enjolras makes it to the end of the hallway, opening doors and peering inside, softly calling Gavroche’s name, until a small set of stairs with a doorway at the end appears in his vision.

He despises stairs currently, but he takes the rail, leaning heavily on both it and his cane to make his way down the steep, if few stairs, before stopping on the landing before the door, pain radiating dully up his leg and shoulder, less intense and sharp than before, but still very much present. He rests for a moment, almost tempted to sit back down but knowing it will be so very difficult to get back up again, and if Gavroche is here, he wants to find him. He pushes the door open, revealing a small, narrow hallway with a few doors off to each side. Servant’s quarters, he thinks.

He runs his finger along the wall, a thick coating of dust coming off on his finger. Clearly these rooms haven’t been used in quite some time, not since Marius’ boyhood days here at the very least, when there was more than Madame Bellard tending to the empty house. It has always seemed odd to him that servants must sleep in another wing of a home, separate from the people they work for, the children they raise, the parents they counsel, simply because they are of a “lower class” a set of words that tastes virulent on Enjolras’ tongue.

Even as a child it bewildered him that he was somehow separate from other children because he was wealthy, that somehow he deserved things simply because he was born into a large house in the rich part of Marseilles to parents who possessed a great deal of money, to a father who was a from a long line of aristocratic blood and a mother born to an American heiress and a French general. “An impressive bloodline” he’d heard someone remark to his father once, but to Enjolras, it matters not where you came from, but who you become, what you do. He recognizes his own privileged upbringing, recognizes the opportunities he had that others do not, but rather than claiming he is some sort of higher human being, rather than maintaining the status quo, he wants to open those opportunities up to everyone, strives not only for freedom, but equality, hand in hand with brotherhood. He recalls a memory from boarding school, remembers seeing two of the boys harassing one of the maids, remembers stepping in and receiving a punch in the face for his trouble, left with no choice but to fight back, feeling his temper rising with each taunt as he swung and kicked his way out from under the two boys, leaving them both with black eyes and himself with a bloody nose. The teacher that found them was sympathetic but the headmaster was not, and wrote home to his father. That was the day Enjolras learned that not everything was fair, the day he learned that a great deal of people felt that just because someone grew up in different circumstances, just because they were poor, that they were worth less as a human being.

It was also the day the idea of fighting for those people cemented in his brain. He was fourteen, and would never forget it. That Christmas he went home, cheek still bruised, pouring over the books his grandmother gave him, learning the tradition, learning the philosophy.

A sneeze echoes through the empty hallway. A small sneeze, a childish sneeze.

Gavroche.

He walks quietly further down to the end, peering around the edge of the doorway, seeing the familiar tousled blonde head bent over a book, several more surrounding him.

“Gavroche?” Enjolras says in an even tone, trying not to startle the boy.

Gavroche jumps anyway, knocking one pile of books over in his alarm.

“Enjolras, what…” he stops furrowing his eyebrow in a way he’s seen Combeferre do, trying to look serious and only serving to look comical, but Enjolras does not laugh. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?” There’s more defensiveness, more fear in his tone that Enjolras likes, more than he’s ever heard.

“Everyone is looking for you,” Enjolras says by way of explanation, walking a little further into the room, sitting on the chair a short distance away from Gavroche, who’s spread blankets all over the floor and made himself at home. “We couldn’t find you anywhere. We were worried something happened to you.”

He doesn’t say they were concerned he ran to Avignon, does not want to shoot anything that seems like an accusation into the air.

“I’m fine,” Gavroche mumbles, eyes darting up to Enjolras and then back down again. “I’m okay on my own, always have been.”

For a moment Enjolras wishes Combeferre were here with him; Combeferre has two younger brothers, three and five years younger respectively, wishes Joly were here, who was always been talented with children. But he found Gavroche, and so it is he who must find a way to get past the boy’s defenses that have suddenly built themselves up again.

“We all know that,” Enjolras says, diplomatic. “But you are here with us now, and we notice when we don’t see you for a long while.”

At this Gavroche stands up abruptly, biting his lip against a wave of an emotion Enjolras cannot yet identify, an electricity in his eyes that mirrors Enjolras’ own in his most intense moments.

“You aren’t my parents,” Gavroche says, speaking more clearly this time, an anger in his tone, but an anger perhaps that is misdirected, an anger long felt. “I don’t need any of you to look out for me.”

Enjolras pauses for a minute, thinking on his words, strategizing. He remembers when they’d first met Gavroche two years ago, an eight year old boy skulking outside the Corinthe with newspapers he couldn’t read in hand, looking as if he had news to share. Bahorel spotted him first, ushering him inside with a warm grin and offering him dinner. With his knowledge of Paris’ political goings on, Enjolras would have thought he was much older, but his small size, a typical symptom, Combeferre and Joly told him, of malnutrition from being underfed, made him look younger. Sometimes Gavroche seemed like Paris itself; one minute he was there and you felt you knew him, and the next minute he was gone, roaming wild and free through the streets, mysterious and unknown. He wants to argue the point about Gavroche needing them to look out for him; he’s only ten, and he’s been without any guardians for far too long. But Enjolras knows that would only come out sounding very condescending no matter how he said it, and he is quite sure Gavroche hates being condescended to as much as he does. He also knows that Gavroche is part of that unfortunately growing group of children who must learn to take care of themselves as adults do, dependent on no one and nothing but themselves. Still, he wants Gavroche to know that he can depend on them, even if learning to do so is a process.

“You don’t need us to, no,” Enjolras says, wary of his words, watching Gavroche watch him. “But we’d like to, if you’ll have us. We aren’t your parents, no, but I know I speak for all of us when I say that you’re like a younger brother in all the ways that matter.”

Gavroche bows his head for a moment, eyes narrowed in thought.

“What’s bothering you?” Enjolras asks, lost for what to do, searching for anything, feeling a direct question is the best route.

Gavroche looks startled for a moment, obviously not expecting the blunt response. He has not heard such from adults in the past: that much is clear. He opens his mouth and closes it once more, crossing his arms over his chest. They are this boy’s heroes, and perhaps as of late, they have all become markedly more human, in good ways and bad.

“Why did you bring me here with you?” Gavroche asks, and Enjolras knows that part of this question is for Gavroche himself. He wonders why he came, why he didn’t run away into the night, into the depths of Paris.

“To keep you safe,” Enjolras answers automatically. “It was dangerous. You were seen at the barricade with us…”

“No one cares about a kid,” Gavroche interrupts, that same defensive, dark expression in his eyes. “Especially not a kid like me.”

“The climate in Paris is utterly unpredictable,” Enjolras says, feeling as if he is arguing with an adult and a child simultaneously. “And I would put nothing past those in power. They could have harmed you, asked you for information.”

“I wouldn’t have told,” Gavroche says, voice prickly with offense. “Would’ve pretended like I didn’t know anything.”

“I know,” Enjolras replies. “But there wasn’t any chance we would let you be harmed if we could help it. So we brought you here. Did you not want to come with us?”

At his own words, Enjolras realizes that they have no true authority over Gavroche at all. He is not legally their ward, he is not their blood relation, and he wonders if there’s anything that might be done about the ward part, if there’s any way that with Valjean’s help that Gavroche might be able to be legally protected by one of them. It was never in his plan to have children, but a small part of him thinks he could be, at the very least, a true older brother to Gavroche, a semblance of a parental figure, with a significant amount of help from his friends, from Valjean and Cosette, from his own parents. Something draws him to this child, something he cannot and does not wish to deny. There is so much potential, so much intelligence, so much chance for him to succeed if only given the chance, and even more than that, the chance for him to have the family he was always denied. Not only could he be free among them, but he would also be loved.

“You don’t plan on sending me back to Paris?” Gavroche asks, not entirely answering the question, but not entirely avoiding in either, the true crux of the matter beginning to come to light. His voice grows less harsh now, a vulnerability more fitting to the child he is than the untamed gleam of bitterness Enjolras saw there just moments before.

“No,” Enjolras says simply, getting up from his chair and making to sit beside Gavroche on the floor.

“Enjolras, don’t,” Gavroche says. “That will hurt your leg.”

“I am all right,” Enjolras answers, gesturing down at the blanket. “May I?”

“Yes,” Gavroche mumbles, looking sheepish.

Enjolras eases himself down onto the blanket, seeing Combeferre’s disapproving expression in his mind’s eye as an ache throbs up and down the muscle. He leans his back against the chair, wincing slightly before turning his gaze back on Gavroche.

“Unless you would like to leave us,” he continues. “Then we had fully planned on keeping you here with us. But as much as we want you here with us, we will not pin you down. I may not know a great deal about children, aside from having been one, but I know you well enough to be sure that is the quickest way to lose your trust.”

Gavroche looks back at him, defenses melting away as he toys with the pages of a book in his hand.

“Your family came,” he begins. “Then Courfeyrac’s arrived too. Combeferre received the parcel recently and he was talking to me the other day about his younger brothers coming to visit. Adrienne wants to come visit Grantaire again. Marius and Cosette are plannin’ the wedding. I guess I just… I don’t have a family. And why would any of you want to make me part of yours? I’m a street kid, a gamin. I don’t belong anywhere.”

“I believe you belong with us,” Enjolras says, firm. “Feuilly too, is without blood family, but we are his family, and he too, was once a gamin like you. You think yourself so different from that?”

Gavroche shrugs, struck silent, so Enjolras ploughs on, grasping at any thread that might cheer Gavroche, that might make him see his place among them.

“My friends are as much my family as my parents, as my grandmother,” Enjolras tries, placing an unsure hand on Gavroche’s shoulder, hoping he’s saying the right thing. “Is Cosette not truly Valjean’s daughter even though she is not blood related? Are Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly, Grantaire, and Marius my brothers? Were Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, and Jehan not also?”

“Yes,” Gavroche says. “But…”

“But nothing,” Enjolras says, holding his hand up in protest. “We have always cared about you Gavroche, but we have been through much together these past few weeks. How could you be anything but our younger brother now? You fought with us, no matter that we tried to send you away, to keep you safe. You are the bravest of us all.”

Gavroche blushes a bit, a sight which Enjolras has never seen before, and doesn’t expect to see again anytime soon.

“Why would someone like you care about someone like me so much?” Gavroche asks, his eyes dusted over with faded memories of being thrown out of his parents’ home as a toddler, left on his own, fending completely for himself.

“Because I do,” Enjolras says, soft. “There need be no other reason.”

At this, Gavroche moves to sit next to Enjolras, leaning against the chair in a similar fashion. He doesn’t move to embrace him, but their arms and legs touch, warm against one another.

“I don’t know how to be normal,” Gavroche says, twisting his fingers in his lap.

“Well,” Enjolras replies, a dry chuckle on his lips. “I don’t believe this household will be what anyone deems normal, but I understand your meaning. We will work on it together, shall we? I have quite a few adjustments to make myself, and I expect as the others search for employment and amusements and such in Avignon while I still continue recovering, while I bide time until Valjean deems it safe for me to emerge from hiding and help me with creating a story, a life, you and I might be spending a great deal of time together.”

Gavroche looks at him again, still uncertain, and Enjolras grows serious again.

“I am not sure how to be normal either,” he says. “I admit, I am…afraid. I do not know to live as a fugitive, how to hide myself, how to act as anything other than myself, just as you are uncertain how to live with a day to day routine, how to live with a family that will not abandon you.”

Gavroche holds his gaze and nods, a small spark of trust forming in his eyes in appreciation of the trust Enjolras just put in him, trusting him with his fears, his doubts. In that moment, Enjolras realizes fully that Gavroche does not require perfect, flawless heroes; he requires human ones.

“What do you say we go and find the others and let them know you’re all right?” Enjolras suggests, resting his hand on the chair to help him stand up again. “They’re all running about looking for you.”

“Okay,” Gavroche says, a cheeky grin spreading onto his face. “Combeferre asked you to stay put while they looked for me, didn’t he?”

“Mmm,” Enjolras says, non-committal.

“He’s going to confine you to bed and lock the door,” Gavroche says, handing Enjolras his cane, smirking fully now.

“Perhaps my punishment will be a bit less severe considering I found you,” Enjolras replies as they start walking, Gavroche going slowly so as to match Enjolras’ pace.

Gavroche slips his arm through Enjolras’ as he’s seen Courfeyrac do a thousand times over, and Enjolras smiles, no matter the pain in his leg.

* * *

A few hours after the search for Gavroche, and about thirty minutes after Courfeyrac was done hugging the boy into submission (eventually Gavroche turned red and swatted at him like a cat, but looked pleased nonetheless) he found himself walking the grounds alone, hands stuffed into the pocket of his jacket as he explored around in the cooling summer evening air, lost in thought. He turns at the sound of footsteps on the grass behind him.

“Hello,” his father says with a small wave and a brimming, unsure smile. “Do you care for some company or shall I leave you to your musings?”

“No, it’s all right,” Courfeyrac says, gesturing his father forward with a similar smile. “Join me.”

They walk together in silence for a few feet, each contemplating the twilight around them rather than each other, thoughts stirring within them both.

“Much quieter than your Paris,” Alain says in a friendly tone. “Perhaps even quieter than home. It’s just enough outside Avignon to be removed from the city sounds.”

“I miss Paris,” Courfeyrac says, wistful, feeling a heavy melancholy drop heavy like stones into the pit of his stomach. “But I cannot go back. At least not for quite some time, and not without my friends. I do not know when it will be safe for Enjolras there again.”

“Not for quite some time, I imagine,” his father replies, frowning in concern. “Is your young friend Gavroche all right? I see Enjolras found him hiding somewhere in the house.”

“He wasn’t hiding away on purpose, really,” Courfeyrac says, looking up at his father, the man he has so long been close with. “But he had no idea we were missing him. Didn’t think we would, which was the center of the problem. But Enjolras spoke to him; he’s better with Gavroche than I ever thought he’d be with children, but I think his direct nature appeals to Gavroche.” Courfeyrac smiles a little wider at the recent memory of Enjolras emerging into the hallway with Gavroche, who looked more contented than Courfeyrac had seen him since before the barricade, a spark of that familiar mischievous fire in his eyes, added to with the knowledge, perhaps for the first time in his young life, that he was loved. Cared for, even if he didn’t yet trust the ideas entirely.

“I remember you went missing once when you were about ten or so,” Alain says, grinning fondly, but there is a sad look in his eyes. “We found you out on the riding path on your horse, trotting along with such determination. You were so furious with us, but now I can’t even recall why. Children do these things sometimes.”

“Gavroche is no ordinary little boy,” Courfeyrac says, hearing the snappisheness in his own tone that he doesn’t care for, but there’s something within his father’s sudden appearance, something within his words that Courfeyrac cannot quite put his finger on.

“Neither were you,” his father says, gazing at him in slight confusion for a moment, likely because of his tone. “Nor are you an ordinary young man.”

“Maybe not,” Courfeyrac agrees. “But Gavroche has lived through things I can only try and imagine. I did not have to fight for survival on the streets when I was little more than a toddler. I do not know what hunger is, or sleeping in the freezing snow. I hid away because I fought with you. Gavroche hid away because he’s never been loved and he feared our love being ripped away from him. I’m not dismissing any difficulties and pain I’ve faced in my life, I just know that Gavroche’s have been significantly more, in a multitude of ways. I can only try and empathize with those horrors, because I have never experienced them myself. But it children like him that we fought for. Fight for.”

“I understand,” his father says, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I did not mean to speak so carelessly. You boys are honorable for taking him in this way.”

Courfeyrac knows his father means well, but the words still sends frustration burning through him; still, there is that tone that Courfeyrac’s found himself arguing with so often in recent years, that tone that still believes, even unconsciously, that the wealthy are doing a monumentally good deed when they reach out to help those less fortunate, when Courfeyrac simply believes that it is an act of what should be common human decency. His father is a good man, not actively shutting himself off to change, but never searching beyond his comfortable horizons.

“It is what he deserves,” Courfeyrac says, stopping mid stride to look at his father full on. “It is not some great act of charity on our part.” He pauses, searching his father’s face, seeing the desire to learn there, mixed with the desire to fall back into easier conversation, a push and pull, an internal debate. “Why are you here?” Courfeyrac finally asks, tired of trying to pry the information out of him and asking directly.

“We were concerned for our son, is that so surprising?” his father says, a bit of rare annoyance in his tone. “Your mother believes you look exhausted, and I cannot help but agree.”

“It is not surprising, no,” Courfeyrac answers, softening. “I know you are concerned for me. But that is not the whole reason you are here. Correct me if I’m wrong, but did part of you not hope to lure me back home?” He ignores the second part of his father’s statement, knowing full well it will come back up in a matter of moments.

His father falls silent for a moment, guilt creasing at his brows.

“Of course part of us wanted that,” he finally says, folding his hands together behind his back. “We miss you. There is a whole life waiting for you at home. A house, a potential marriage. Your family. But we did not want to…”

“Bring it up until you thought I ‘looked less tired?’” Courfeyrac asks, interrupting, hating how unnatural it feels to sound so scathing with his father, memories of his adolescent years when he and his father would play pranks on his mother and sisters, delighting in their surprised squeals of surprise and delight all rolled into one.

“Marcel,” Alain says, a rare severity in his tone. “Do not speak to me in such a way.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Courfeyrac presses, feeling irrational and hardly caring. He knows his father too well. “You were going to give me time to ‘recover’, the ‘proper’ amount of time to grieve my beloved friends, and then you were going to try and guilt me, try and lure me back to coming home when you know it’s not what I want.”

Alain sighs. “Would it be so terrible?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Do you dislike our company so much now?”

“You should have sent mother instead of coming yourself,” Courfeyrac grumbles. “At least she is honest rather than playing passive aggressive games with me. Her tendency for weepiness in arguments is much more genuine and easier to speak with than you darting around the truth. Thank whatever higher power exists only Olivie inherited that from you, and not Josephine and myself as well.”

“Marcel,” Alain tries again, an almost growl in his tone, a dangerous sign Courfeyrac knows well because it is his own, a sign in both of them that their tempers have flared. “Answer me.”

“Of course I do not dislike your company so much,” Courfeyrac says, voice rising, any semblance of a smile melting away. “I love all of your more than I can say. But that does not mean my place is at home. I am not asking you to throw away my inheritance, I am not saying that I will not take care of the family affairs when you pass on. I am saying that I can do those things from here, and come home as needed. Let Olivie and Josephine have reign of the house. They enjoy the country far more than I do. And if you think I would not feel them my equals in handling family matters and money, then you are mistaken; they are smart women, father. Just because society deems them unfit for such matters, if certainly does not mean I follow along.”

“Why can you not come home and come here as needed?” Alain asks, anger fading as desperation sets in.

“Because my friends need me!” Courfeyrac shouts, voice hoarse with emotion. “Enjolras is my brother in all but blood, and he _needs_ me. All our lives have been changed irrevocably, but his has been _shattered_. To the world, he is dead. He must find a name and a life, must create a lie to protect himself. We have all been to hell, but he has been to the seventh circle. Combeferre needs me. Feuilly, Grantaire, and Marius need me. Gavroche needs me. And we will all find a way to fight again. I cannot and will not abandon that.”

His father doesn’t respond immediately, but instead gazes at him for a moment, an inevitable smile slipping onto his face.

“We are so similar and yet so different,” he says, almost whispering, unafraid to reach out and touch his son despite their disagreement, hand reaching out to grasp Courfeyrac’s with feeling. “I suppose I still feel that I know what will make you happy, and that’s all I want, your happiness. But I have to accept, perhaps, that you are old enough, mature enough, to know what makes you happy. You have been for a long while, but I did not want to admit to it. Perhaps there are things beyond simple contentment that you desire, beyond happiness.”

Courfeyac feels his anger dim, but even more than that, feels the breakthrough of his father’s words lift his soul. Finally, there is a more coherent understanding.

“I am not what you wanted in a son,” Courfeyrac begins, but he’s only met with his father’s raised hand, silencing him.

“You are _everything_ I wanted in a son,” he says, taking Courfeyrac’s other hand. “You are so intelligent, you are compassionate, you are charming. Which of course must come from me,” he says, winking, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “I shall… well, I shall simply have to learn to trust that you are capable of helping with family affairs while still living here. If anyone can do so, it would be you. You are right: your friends do need you. You are unconventional, certainly, but then I suppose I must learn to expand my mind as you have.”

Courfeyrac nearly beams, but there’s something in his father’s tone still that unsettles him.

“You haven’t lost me, you know,” Courfeyrac says. “I’m still here, closer by far than when I was in Paris. You may come visit me any time, and I will come visit home for a few days when things are more settled here with Enjolras, with everyone, perhaps after Combeferre takes a few days to take his final exam as Enjolras has pressed him to do, because despite his protests to the contrary he needs at least one of the two of us here. But that shouldn’t be too far off, and I must find the time to dote on my sisters.”

“Well of course,” Alain says, eyes lighting up more with each moment. “Josephine will be having the baby in a few months time, so then, perhaps. You still plan on looking for a practice?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says. “Or perhaps starting my own, if possible. And if you are amenable to helping me start it up with a small piece of my inheritance. But that is a discussion for another day.”

“Hmmm,” Alain says, surveying his son. “My son the lawyer. Well, you are excellent at arguing, I should think you will quite talented at this profession. As long as you don’t threaten to set anything on fire, mind.”

“You should see Enjolras and I together,” Courfeyrac says with a grin. “We so enjoyed taking down our classmates. Well, I did when I went to class. Had Combeferre been a law student, his one line responses would have made us the most feared triumvirate in the history of the school, I should think.”

His father scoffs playfully, shoving his shoulder.

“Oh don’t fret, Bossuet and Bahorel were far worse than myself,” Courfeyrac says, feeling the familiar sadness sweep through him at the mention of their names, the breath stopping pain that gathers in the center of his chest. “Marius was quite dutiful, though he is a nervous fellow. He’s improved though, and with his incredible intelligence and linguistic skills I should think that, should Enjolras one day be able to join us, the three of us would make a formidable team.”

“You love your friends a great deal,” his father observes.

“More than I can properly put into words,” Courfeyrac says in a near whisper. “Though Jehan would have been able to. I’m certain Enjolras can. There is space in my heart for much, but four things always take up residence; my friends, our cause, my family.”

“And the fourth?” Alain asks, eyes alright with curiosity.

“Paris,” Courfeyrac breathes, feeling the melancholy pinching at his heart, missing the city to which he will not be able to return, even for a visit, for quite some time. “And the great fun and adventure it always brings. Despite all the hats of mine claimed by its streets, the hearts of fine ladies I’ve lost to its romance.”

At this, Alain wraps an arm around his son’s shoulder, and Courfeyrac feels the pain ease a bit, leaning into his father’s embrace.

“You will be happy here?” Alain asks, one final time.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, and it’s true. He loves Paris, but he would trade it a thousand times for the presence of his friends. “One day.”

Alain pulls him closer, and Courfeyrac wraps his arm around his father’s waist, the two of them walking into the fading light of the sunset.

* * *

The next morning Flora finds herself on her own; her mother is talking with Cosette in the drawing room, Aubry has gone for a walk with Monsieur de Courfeyrac, whom he has befriended over the past few days. They live only a day’s journey from the de Courfeyracs, and in light of all this, Flora hopes they might see each other often, as she too, has grown close with Madame de Courfeyrac. She thinks of their friends in Marseilles, anxiety plaguing her at the mere thought. The dynamics of their family have taken great strides since their arrival here, and as she spots Enjolras walking slowly along the path with Combefere and Courfeyrac as she approaches the window, leaning heavily on his cane but still making his way, she feels an invisible force sock her in the stomach even as she simultaneously feels a surge of joy.

Her son improves, her son lives, and yet they cannot share that fact with any of their friends. Some of them she trusts with her secrets, but this secret is far too dangerous should it fall into the wrong hands. She cannot risk her son’s life, his safety, cannot risk the futures of any of these young men. They will have to hold a funeral, will have to inter an empty casket and make a meaningless headstone, will have to appear as if they are mourning, all while Rene lives. Here alone as she gazes out the window, she can admit it bothers her, but watching the morning sunlight glint off her son’s hair washes away some of that dread, filling her with a relief so strong that it nearly topples her over. It will be hard, it will be painful, but he is alive, gloriously alive, and even more than that, he and Aubry are making amends. It is fragile still, but she feels the bond between them strengthening as each day passes. She looks back out the window, seeing a dark haired figure dressed in a green jacket and tan trousers, cravat already undone, take a seat on the bench in the garden, watching the trio walk just as she does.

Grantaire.

He makes no move to join them, merely resting back on his hands, seemingly content to observe his friends as they walk, unaware they are being watched by not one, but two entirely different sets of eyes. After a beat she decides to join him, the sound of the door creaking open alerting him to her presence. He turns, looking a bit startled, but recovering himself.

“Madame Enjolras,” he says. “You appear as if from nowhere. Your son is quite adept at that too.”

“May I join you?” she asks, indicating the spot next to him on the bench.

“Certainly,” he says, gesturing for her to sit, but still looking unnerved.

“And please,” she responds, lifting her skirts and sitting down beside him. “Call me Flora. We have wept at my son’s bedside together. You have every right.”

Grantaire smiles and nods, but Flora senses the sadness in it, and his eyes flit back to his three friends, growing smaller in the distance. She watches Grantaire’s expression, watches the light grow within his dark green eyes the longer he looks at her son. There is a bond between them that could be any number of things, a bond she cannot quite name or put her finger on, but she senses it as sure as she breathes.

“You love him,” she says, quiet but resolute. It is a statement and a question all at once.

Grantaire starts again, hand going to his chest as he whirls around to face her, but she does not cut off her gaze. He meets it for a moment, almost tangible defenses springing up around him before he softens again, eyes flickering back out to Enjolras, and her eyes follow his.

“I do. In my own way. I don't pretend that my love has any of the worth of that of Combeferre or Courfeyrac over there. Or Feuilly. Or any of our friends who are gone.”

He avoids the meat of the question, but then she expected him to do so. Part of her suspects he is perhaps _in_ love with Rene, but she does not expect him to own to it because even that is not simple, even that branches out into many parts, complex and layered. Besides that, he may not even be entirely aware that is what he feels. Whatever form of love, it is a great love nonetheless.

“He would be upset to hear you say such a thing,” Flora replies, eyes leaving her son as he grows smaller in the distance, eyes turning back to Grantaire. “He treasures your love as dearly as he does the others. Do you doubt that?”

“I did,” Grantaire admits, voice harsh for a moment before it lightens once more. “I did not doubt anything else about him, but I did doubt that, but that of course, was my doubts plaguing me rather than anything to do with Enjolras. I gave him no reason to like me, let alone love me as he does the others. I knew he cared for my well-being, that they all did, but I am not so easy to love. I say that not so that you will feel sorry for me, I say it because it’s the truth. I never understood why he didn’t demand my removal, not only from Les Amis in general, but particularly from the inner circle, from the nine of us, did not understand why he trusted me. I did not proclaim antagonism for their cause exactly, but nor did I proclaim my belief because I had none, aside from in them. On my best nights I made them all laugh, on my worst nights I rambled drunkenly on, fell into sullen moods that they were kind enough to lure me out of. It would have been easy enough for me to hand all of them over for treasonous behavior. Other student groups were arrested for less.”

“You never would have done that,” Flora says. “They are your dearest friends. A family to you. Above all else, Grantaire, you are loyal. Gentle. I have not known you long, and even I know that very well.”

“Most certainly,” Grantaire says, voice shaking a bit with emotion. “I never would have dreamed of it. I lived my life in their circles. But how could Enjolras, how could any of them have known that?”

“Because they trusted you, because your true nature is not so hidden as you suspect,” Flora emphasizes. “Your belief in all of them, your belief in my son, was evident, even if your belief in their cause, in yourself, was not. Rene far from disdains you, Lucien.”

“Not me, exactly, no. He disdained my habits rather than my person. He will own to it, Flora, and I scarcely blame him; Enjolras grew frustrated with me, saw me wasting what he saw as my talents and my intelligence to the bottle and my skepticism, to my fear. We only openly argued a few times, but I saw his disappointed glances in my direction, yet still they were tinged with an odd hope that I might change, as if he was never quite sure what to do with me. But our friends enjoyed my company and he grew accustomed to me, counted me as a friend himself. Trusted me, though I think he was never quite sure why. But still he cared about me. I never understood his odd belief in me as surely as I did not understand mine in him, fully, even if it was the only thing I held onto, most times. That, and the friendship of the group at large. At one point I believe I almost lost the faith he had in me. But I have learned to have a little of their faith, of his faith, as of late, I’m trying to accept that they love me and always did. I’m trying. How could I not, after everything that has happened. I trust now, that none of them will suddenly rip their friendship away now, not after they have stood by me. But there are things for which I cannot yet forgive myself. Even if they all have, even if Enjolras has.”

Flora tilts her head in question, giving Grantaire the chance to respond or avoid as he sees fit. At first Grantaire looks very much as if he will refuse, but instead he blurts the words out as if he doesn’t mean to, but he does not regret them.

“I was drunk on the morning they built the barricade, on the morning of the funeral,” he says, looking up as if challenging her to reprimand him. “I disgraced the barricade with my behavior to the point where both Courfeyrac and Enjolras were angry with me. Even prior to that I asked your son to send me on an errand, convinced him to trust me with it, and I failed.” He stops for a moment, and she almost sees an image of her son in his eyes, a memory for which she was not present. “I got drunk again the night your son almost perished from fever because I couldn’t handle it. I was lost in my delirium from withdrawal when he was brought back to us from Javert’s clutches, half out of his mind with Laudanum. He screamed from the physical pain, his emotional defenses shattered, and what did I do but stand by, frozen in my fear? What good was I to him then? What good was I to the person I care for so dearly? Who makes me feel as if I am someone again? ”

“I’ve heard these stories from another,” she says, clearly meaning Rene. “And they ring quite differently.”

Grantaire looks at her for a moment, hope in his eyes before he shakes his head, so Flora ploughs forward, desiring, for reasons she’s not quite sure of, to get to the bottom of Grantaire’s sudden renewal of the doubts he’s so recently worked on overcoming. Perhaps it’s because she feels so maternal toward all of these young men, her son’s chosen family, regretting that she never got to meet the four who are already gone.

“Rene told me of your struggles with giving up liquor,” she says, gentle as she places a hand on his back. “Of how difficult it was and is, physically and emotionally, how you made the decision after losing your friends, after seeing how close he himself was to death. He told how you carried him through the sewers, how you stepped up beside Feuilly when…” she pauses for a moment, recalling the story Rene finally admitted to her last night when pressed. “When Javert came to arrest him and put the pistol to his head. He told me of your recent argument, and the words you shared afterward. Those are the things he deemed important, rather than past mistakes and frustrations. Past anger. Yet you choose to look at the other? I think he would tell you to focus on the larger picture here.”

Grantaire is quiet for a moment before responding, hand twitching as if searching for a bottle that isn’t there, a longing for the burn of liquor that the wine he drinks at meals can never satiate.

“Our friends Joly and Bossuet,” he says after a moment, melancholy piercing his tone with the gravity of grief. “They were talented at cajoling me into better humors, at making me laugh, when I got into these moods. You do not need to do the same, M- Flora,” he corrects, remembering her earlier request.

“You and all of your friends are as much a part of my son’s family as I am now,” Flora says. “Is it so wrong of me to try and ease your worries? Besides even that, your lovely sister is now counted among my friends, and she asked me to make sure you were all right, to check in on you until she can get here from Paris.”

Grantaire smiles at the mention of Adrienne, eyes softening a little as they lose some of their defensive ire. Flora’s sadness at the distance she already feels from her friends in Marseilles eases a little as she remembers all the new relationships she’s forging, people who understand the exact experience she’s going through.

“Have you seen his wounds?” he asks suddenly, an involuntary shudder visibly running through him.

“Once,” Flora responds. “At the height of his fever when Combeferre needed assistance changing the bandages.”

She does not like to remember that moment, does not like to remember the still bleeding wounds, the entry and exit wounds in his shoulder, the discoloration of his thigh where the bullet struck, inflamed bright red from the infection. She thinks now of the added wounds, the cut on his hand, the fading bruise on his cheek, each marring the pale, nearly perfect skin her friends always cooed over when Rene was a child.

“How beautiful he is!” they exclaimed when he reached his adolescence. “Just you wait, Flora, a young lady will have him snapped up before you know it.”

She’d laughed then, at that image, because though polite to any young woman he met, Rene had firmly rebuked any youthful romantic advances and glances, infinitely preferring to keep his nose in the books his grandmother had so recently lent him, emblazoned with the names of revolutionaries past. That, or riding off for hours on his horse, existing in what seemed another world entirely.

“I hadn’t seen them properly until yesterday,” Grantaire says, drawing her back into the present as Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac head back in their direction from a distance across the lawn. “Combeferre asking for my help was already a surprise to me, but I thought I was prepared for seeing those wounds, for seeing how much pain he must really be in. I wasn’t. It made me worry I am not actually capable of helping him physically, let alone emotionally.”

“Combeferre would not have asked you if he felt that were true,” Flora says. “And if he senses it becoming so, he will tell you. Besides that, if Rene had serious protests about someone else assisting with his rehabilitation, he would have made them known.”

“He is tenacious,” Flora continues. “Stubborn. He always has been. So if he was vehemently against the idea of you helping with his rehabilitation, he would have said so, even in this state. Perhaps he thinks this is also a chance to show you his trust in you, the strengthening and changing of your friendship. You might feel you fall short, but he will not give up on you. He sees the best in people even when they frustrate him, he searches for it, almost to a fault. Things might have been tenuous between you that day on the barricade when he found you were intoxicated, but that is in the past now. This is the present, and you are living out that very hope for you that you said you always saw in his eyes.”

Grantaire relaxes, muscles visibly loosening as the trio moves slowly but surely closer to them.

“I will say, however,” she adds with a teasing air. “That you and Combeferre will have your work cut out for you with his rehabilitation. Charming he most certainly is, but also extremely difficult when ill. He is the only child I ever raised, but when compared to my friends’ accounts of their own children, well. Rene wins out.

Grantaire laughs, a true, genuine laugh that Flora finds much lovelier than the half – hearted almost bitter chuckle she’s heard before.

“I’ve heard stories from your mother,” he says. “And seen it a few times myself. I once had to look after Rene when he was very ill and the others had an engagement that he refused to let them miss. I was told he was rather tame that day. It amazes me how he can go from the quiet one in the corner of the Musain, to articulate, intense orator, astonishing us with his soaring, to most stubborn, sullen patient.”

“My mother enjoys embarrassing Rene, but he never did bare illness well. Always thought there was something better to do.”

“Not much has changed then,” Grantaire says. “But I think perhaps he will be a bit better this time around. He has seen us all worry over him, knows how much it pained us to nearly lose him, so I do believe he’s been a bit more amenable this time around.”

Flora looks up again, seeing Courfeyrac waving exuberantly at them in the near distance as Enjolras smiles softly, Combeferre raising one hand in greeting. She knows there is just time enough for one more word before the trio reaches their spot, clearly intent on joining them now that they’ve been spotted.

“I believe he would do near anything to make all of you more at ease, to make you happy,” Flora says, soft as she squeezes Grantaire’s hand, which he doesn’t jerk back, but squeezes tentatively in return. “Just as he did anything to try and protect you all from Javert’s wrath.”

“Just as he shielded us at the barricade,” Grantaire says, voice a whisper now. “So we could escape.” He pauses for a moment, meeting Flora’s eyes. “But he will find a way to fight again. It may be in a different manner given the situation, there might not be a barricade anytime soon, but it will happen. He will write. He will find the local republican groups in Avignon, figure out the political scene here, get involved. Something. Danger, even still. Just more careful danger for a while.”

“Yes,” Flora says, nodding. “But so will the others. They will all find ways to further their cause. And you?”

Grantaire hesitates, but it’s only because it’s clear he doesn’t quite know how to form the words he wants to say.

“I will help them,” he says simply. “My belief in _their_ belief in me grows stronger, and perhaps that will be enough for me to believe too, at least a bit, in what they’re fighting for, in that better world. Sometimes, the fact that they all exist, that your son exists, is the shred of proof I need. A chink of light that inches out slowly.”

He smiles genuinely at her again, though his eyes are a filled with a strange sort of bright melancholy. As Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac reach them, at least for a moment, the melancholy, the doubt, the shaky self-confidence disappears into the light of that smile, spreading incrementally across Grantaire’s face.

Something in Flora warms, and she sits back, listening to her son, to his friends, reveling in the glorious sound of their voices, of their still beating hearts that pump fire through their veins.

* * *

Javert takes a deep breath before he opens the door into the main headquarters of the Parisian police force, his second home for the past several years as he moved up the ranks. Prefect Gerard is waiting for him, but he is a few minutes early as usual, so he gives himself a moment. The paperwork has been filled out, his open cases assigned to other officers. Enjolras’ name is still a whisper on his fellows’ lips, his face the glint of gossip in their eyes every time Javert’s walked past them during the past few weeks. The blood of the rebels has already dried in the streets, and soon, Paris will forget, jot it down as yet another rebellion, another barricade, yet as the memories grow and multiply, as more rebels take their place, the memories of even the smallest rebellion cannot fade completely because they all remind the French people of the mother from which all their subsequent revolts poured forth, of the time when, for a brief moment between a king and an emperor, the country was run by the people, by the leaders of the French revolution themselves. In Javert’s mind that meant only chaos and inevitable bloodshed, but something at the back of his mind, a familiar voice, tells him perhaps this is the true chaos, the constant battling of the people against their government, because despite the body count, despite losses, people keep fighting.

He shakes his head free of the treasonous thoughts and runs a hand through his hair, which has grown too long. He pushes Enjolras’ face out of his mind, drowning out Valjean’s voice. He no longer knows if he’s right, but he fights against the idea that they are right, and it leaves him somewhere in the middle, lacking answers, lacking direction. Now he will also be lacking the job that defines every fiber of his person. Finally he pushes the door open, back straight and head held high, listening to the familiar echo of his boots on the floor.

He will not show them his crumbling mind, his shaking hands, his doubt and his cracking soul, if there is such a thing as a soul.

No.

He will show them the inspector they’ve always known, the tall, fearsome upholder of the law who is bereft of mercy in the face of criminals.

 _Except for Valjean_ , the voice whispers, sinister. _Except for Enjolras and his friends._

The voice permeate his brain for a moment as he walks through the station, sparsely populated by a few officers in the early hour of the morning when the shift is about to change. Most greet him as he walks past, but it’s Bertrand who stops him just in front of the Prefect’s office.

“Good morning Inspector Javert,” he says, looking nervous but determined.

“Not for much longer, Bertrand,” Javert says, sounding harsher than he intends.

“Once an inspector always an inspector,” Bertrand insists. “Retired Inspector Javert then.” He pauses a moment, then puts his hand out. “It has been an honor working with you, monsieur. I’ve learned more from you than I could have from anyone else.”

For a moment, Javert hesitates. Then, he feels the ghost of a smile crack at the edges of his lips. It’s barely there, and it’s a foreign feeling, smiling, but he does. He puts his hand out and shakes Bertrand’s.

“Good luck, Bertrand,” he says, brusque still, but sincere in his words.

“Thank you, monsieur,” Bertrand responds. “You as well.”

Javert nods, but thinks he’s going to need something a great deal more potent than luck. He’s going to need a miracle to sort out his mind, and he doesn’t even believe in miracles.

 _Avignon_ , the voice tells him once more, as it has many times over the past few weeks. _The answers are in_ _Avignon_.

He’s paid his landlord a three month advance on his rent, to relief himself of the worry, and has hired a stagecoach for this afternoon to take him to Avignon. He’s told no one, but who exactly does he have to tell? He has no friends, no family, no one in his life to speak of. He’s led a solitary existence, aside from a rare meal shared with his fellow officers. It was a choice, his solitude; he was alone as a child, spending more time running through the streets than with his inattentive, criminal parents. He was alone as a guard at Toulon, he was alone in Paris, thinking only of his career, of moving up through the ranks, of putting people like his parents in prison, of justice and the merciless law, pushing down his feelings of shame and embarrassment down further and further until he was nothing but stone. Or so he thought.

_And now you’re fleeing into the arms of your enemies. Enemies who cracked at the stone you so carefully assembled that you don’t know whether to call them enemies or friends, right or wrong._

His hand twitches as he raises it to knock on Prefect Gerard’s office door; it’s a tick that began ever since his return from Avignon, and try as he might he cannot make it cease.

“Come in,” the Prefect calls.

Javert does, taking the seat he’s offered. He folds his hands in his lap, trying to cover up the twitches that grow more frequent the longer he’s in this office.

“Everything appears to be in order Inspector,” Gerard tells him, handing Javert a stack of papers sealed within an envelope. “All the information on your pension should be located inside. Do you have your badge?”

“Yes,” Javert says, pulling it out of his pocket, the medals on the uniform he will never wear again save for some kind of ceremony, jangling as he leans over the desk to hand the badge to his superior officer.

His hand twitches once again and the badge drops to the desk.

“Feeling quite well Javert?” Gerard asks, noticing the twitch and looking up to meet Javert’s eyes.

“Yes,” Javert says, his response almost a snap. “My apologies. Is there anything else?”

“I don’t believe so,” Gerard says, standing up from his chair as Javert does the same, and puts out his hand as Bertrand had done, though it is decidedly less friendly. Javert very much feels as if Gerard thinks he’s insane, going on his gaze alone. He recalls the immense good graces he had with the previous Prefect, remembers always feeling as if Gerard disliked him from the start, and now here he is, forced into retirement because of one revolutionary. Because he’d shown the mercy he’d always sworn off. Because Valjean had shown up and ruined everything.

“Thank you very much for your immense service Inspector Javert,” Gerard says. “Your work will not be forgotten, and please let us know if there’s anything we might do for you.”

“Thank you,” Javert says gruffly.

“Any plans for your first few weeks of retirement?” Gerard asks once Javert has his hand on the door, watching it twitch again as it touches the knob.

“No,” Javert lies, voice cold but polite, because he owes this man nothing, yet he does not want him to sense any weakness, any frailty. “I’m simply looking forward to relaxing.”

It could not be further from the truth.

“Of course,” Gerard responds as Javert opens the door. “Good day, Javert.”

“Good day monsieur,” Javert responds, finally closing the door behind him.

Javert walks purposefully through the room, stopping to greet and shake hands with a few more men before finally he’s out the door, and it closes with a very final sounding thud behind him. He keeps walking until he’s around the corner and out of sight, walks faster and faster in the hot summer air until he reaches his nearby rooms, rented precisely because there were very near the station, keeps walking until he reaches his door and his sitting room, before tossing off his hat with a furious, frustrated scream and casting it into the corner.

_Avignon.Valjean.Avignon.Enjolras.Avignon.Mercy.Cosette.Revolution.Justice._

The words tumble together in his head as he paces back and forth across the room, finally nearly collapsing into a chair from the sheer exhaustion which has overcome him in trying to hide his cracked psyche from his fellows ever since the barricade fell and particularly since his return from Avignon.

Yes, Avignon.

He will find his answers there, he will demand them from these people he cannot banish from his thoughts, these people who have wrecked everything he ever knew, every code he ever held. They _must_ have the answers.

Otherwise he might find himself looking for death once more.

 

 


	34. Passing Afternoons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for my delay everyone! Life things rather got in my way recently. But here is the next installment! Much thanks as always to the wonderful ariadneslostthread, who is ever an inspiration for this fic, and to diminutive-fox, whose ideas contributed to a section of this chapter. Enjoy!

Enjolras isn't used to this kind of quiet.

Perhaps on his worst days after being so ill, in his most troubling hours after the debacle with Javert there had been such a silence, but he'd been too focused on either his physical pain or his frothing, uncontrollable emotions to give it much thought. Then his and Courfeyrac's families arrived, adding more noise to the household, and their departure a few days ago left a significant quiet in its wake.

Now though, it's so quiet he hears it ringing in his ears. It won't last for long, he knows, soon his friends will return to sit and talk and fuss over him, the hallways of this large home filled with chatter. Cosette, Marius, and Courfeyrac left for the Avignon shops a few hours ago to search for Marius' wedding suit, but when they'd asked if Enjolras might accompany them, Valjean gently said no.

"It's too soon, yet," he'd said, looking at Enjolras in slight apology. "Perhaps in a few weeks, but my instinct tells me no, at the moment. The papers were only released two weeks ago, announcing that Enjolras was dead. We need to let the murmuring die down. This might not be Paris, and people's memories fade quickly when they've only seen a sketch, but we've risked too much to move too soon now." He'd paused, looking at Enjolras. "You understand, I hope, my lad?" he'd asked. There was such affection in his tone, such worry, that Enjolras could not even try pressing the matter, even as Courfeyrac's merry expression faded ever so slightly.

"I do," he'd said quietly. "I do."

And he did. Even if he didn't want to. His freedom was restricted now, and even when he was allowed out into the world, he would have to watch his step, consider his movements, his words. He comforted himself that some of it was not so different from being the leader of an illegal republican society in Paris; he'd been forced to watch his rhetoric in certain places, did a great deal of work in secret. But even still, this was different, particularly in contrast to the semblance of freedom his friends still possessed here away from the watchful eyes of Paris.

Feuilly was also in Avignon in his not so secret quest for some type of employment, even if only part-time. Enjolras understood: even though there was certainly no immediate need for his income, Feuilly was used to fending for himself, and despite the fact that he no longer needed to pay rent on rooms or make his way in Paris, he still wanted to help, in his way, and had found a few leads in shops that required painting skills. Grantaire, in need of air at Combeferre's behest, had accompanied him. Combeferre was borrowing Valjean's study to write to his professors about taking his final exam, which Enjolras had been poking and prodding him about for days. Valjean was somewhere about the house, and Gavroche was out at the stables with Madame Bellard, who was introducing him to the horses.

So Enjolras sits with an open book on his lap (a favorite novel of Courfeyrac's, who had joyously discovered it in the library and thrust it upon Enjolras), restless as a dull ache throbs up and down his leg. There is another physical therapy session in store this afternoon, and as much he wants his leg and arm to grow stronger, as strong as his pain threshold is, he has to admit it hurts him, has to admit to taking it slowly, day by day, even if he wants it healed now, immediately. He looks out the window, considering how much his life has changed in the space of a few short weeks. He's always lived so firmly in the future in a plethora of ways, but now he does so in an entirely different way. Before the barricade the future was all made up of dreams of the republic, of how to achieve it, and in a number of ways that's still true, because those things are a large part of who he is, what he lives and what he breathes, but now he's forced to consider what  _his_  future is more than ever. He survived where he might have died, he's imprisoned where he was once free, he must find new ways to fight, new ways to live, new ways to exist in this world turned upside down.

He's deep in thought when he hears a pair of now familiar footsteps entering the room.

"May I join you?" Valjean asks, his tall figure standing in front of Enjolras.

"Of course," Enjolras says, gesturing at the chair next to his, separated by a small table upon which rests a cup of tea Toussaint thrust upon him a few minutes ago. He'd half-pleaded for coffee, but she'd refused him, insisting tea would help him relax.

"You didn't wish to go into Avignon with the others?" Enjolras asks by way of conversation, not missing the intensity of Valjean's gaze upon him.

"I thought you might like some company," Valjean says, soft, sipping at his own, similar cup of tea.

Enjolras smiles, thankful as he lets Valjean continue, suspecting there is more.

"I spent a great deal of time alone, particularly in my first years after breaking my parole," Valjean says. "It is not the same situation, obviously, you are surrounded by a great many people, but it will be difficult for a time, I suspect, while they integrate into their new lives here and you must bide your time before you may enter the world."

"I  _want_ them to start their lives," Enjolras insists.

"I know," Valjean says, smiling at him with the expression of an indulgent father, and Enjolras, much to his surprise, finds it endearing as opposed to frustrating. He's not a child and Valjean doesn't treat him as such, but there is a level of understanding and affection between them that still surprises Enjolras with its suddenness over the past few weeks, blossomed from tragedy, bonded through similarity of experience despite a difference in age. There's something kindred in their souls sometimes, Enjolras thinks, something unspoken but extremely prevalent.

Silence falls between them for a few moments as Enjolras contemplates Valjean's expression, the slight uneasiness in his tone, the way his hands grip the arms of the chair lightly, but enough to cause the blood to rush out of his knuckles.

"Did you want to talk to me about something in particular?" Enjolras asks, tilting his head and meeting Valjean's eye.

"Yes," Valjean says, pausing for a few seconds before responding. "I know we've spoken about the story we will tell people, your story, how we all came to be here. But wanted to set it in stone, stress the importance of it with you before I do so with the others. Are you amenable?"

A knot forms in Enjolras' stomach, a lump in his throat, but he swallows it back, nodding.

"The first part is essentially the truth," Valjean begins. "That we are renting this house from M. Gillenormand as his grandson and his bride to be are looking to start their lives here in Avignon. You are my son who was injured in a hunting accident and have come here with your sister and me while you convalesce."

Enjolras smiles slightly at the idea that Cosette will be his sister, imagining how thrilled she will be at the prospect. Valjean smiles in return and continues.

"Gavroche is my orphaned nephew who I've taken in. So your cousin."

"I will be a Fauchelevent, then?" Enjolras asks.

"Rene Fauchelevent, if you wish," Valjean says. "It would be simplest to keep your first name, as it's not all that conspicuous, and easier for everyone to remember. But you can only go by Enjolras here at home, which I know will take some getting used to."

"What of my friends?" Enjolras asks. "How will we explain them?"

"Combeferre came to help look after your medical care," Valjean explains. "Particularly as the air in Paris disagreed with him. Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Grantaire are childhood friends of yours who I am allowing to live with us as they start their lives here in Avignon, away from the recent outbreaks of Cholera in Paris. No one will question that."

Enjolras nods again, letting it all sink it, repeating it to himself, memorizing the details. He finds, at the mention of the cholera outbreak, his thoughts fly to the city, to its people and even with the bitter tang of defeat on his tongue, he yearns for them. Avignon must be his Paris now, and he yearns to learn of her and know her streets, but knows he must wait.

"It will still be a while yet, before I may go into town?" Enjolras asks, already knowing the answer.

"A few weeks at least," Valjean says, a sympathetic expression lining his face. "The news is too fresh, even this far out. It may have only been a sketch of you, but people have keener eyes than you initially suspect."

"The wedding is in a few weeks," Enjolras points out. He hasn't missed the whispered conversations between Marius and Cosette, between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, about how he can possibly attend, how they will manage the situation. "Courfeyrac jokes of disguises…"

"He is not so wrong there," Valjean says, chuckling a bit. "It will be easier, I think because the only people attending the wedding, aside from a few Gillenormand family friends, know exactly who you are, and I suspect we can trust M. Gillenormand to handle those people. It will be a small ceremony in the church, and Marius and Cosette have elected to have the celebration here at home afterward."

Enjolras' ears perk up; this is news to him.

"Because of me?"

"Yes," Valjean replies, noting the guilt already marring Enjolras' expression.

"I don't want them to do that," Enjolras says flatly, swiping through the air with his hand.

"They  _want_  to do that," Valjean argues good-naturedly. "Cosette will not be moved, and neither will Marius. I am personally not inclined to make them. We all want you to be able to attend the wedding and the celebration. It wouldn't be the same without you."

"I am not well-versed in the goings on of weddings," Enjolras admits. "I have been to a few, of course, but I simply do not want Cosette to miss out on having exactly what she wishes. I may not have spent any time considering a wedding, but I know she has."

"Cosette has a dress she is incredibly fond of and a lovely flower selection," Valjean says. "All she wanted was that and all of her loved ones present. She was a lonely child, you understand, and now she has found herself with a gaggle of practical brothers."

It is this, more than anything, which silences Enjolras' protests.

Enjolras has never seen it before, and even to Valjean himself it looks foreign, but just for a moment, the older man grins wide. It is not just a smile playing at the corner of his lips, gentle and soft and safe; his teeth are visible, the light reaching his dark grey eyes.

"What?" Enjolras asks, gruff, red tinting his cheeks.

Valjean continues grinning. "You fall silent at the idea of arguing with Cosette over this," he points out. "She will be pleased at the power of her persuasion, even at her absence."

At this, Enjolras cannot help but laugh, the sound slipping past his lips despite himself.

"I may not be at all versed in romantic interactions with women, and until recently the only women I usually interacted with personally were the ladies who staffed the Corinthe and the Musain, as well as my friend Joly's mistress Musichetta. Also of course the working women we spoke with, and the republican women interested in our cause," he says, meeting Valjean's eyes in amusement. "But growing up with my mother and my grandmother taught me that there are some circumstances in which it is best not to argue with them, as they are most fierce when their minds are made up, usually because they are right. Besides, it is Cosette's wedding, and if she wants me there, I will not argue, no matter how I worry over causing trouble. I am learning to defer to my friends in the case of my own well being."

"So I see," Valjean replies, a mild teasing in his tone Enjolras doesn't miss.

There is something different about Valjean than when they first met; he is a bit less grave, a bit more playful, some of the years on his face washed away despite the incredible stress they've all been under. There is life in the aging man's face, purpose, color, where before it was pale and fading.

"I cannot thank you enough," Enjolras says, still contemplating this change in Valjean, remembering Cosette's stories of her father when she was a young girl, memories of him picking her up and swinging her in circles, of how, as she grew older, he grew quieter, grew even more solemn. "For everything you've done for me. For all of us. I know I've said it a dozen times, but…" Enjolras' mind drifts back to that day outside the jail, Valjean's hand covering his own as the knife sliced through his flesh, Valjean's voice in his ear, reassuring him as he hadn't been reassured since he was a child, an instant warmth, immediate comfort flooding through him despite the situation. "I cannot say it enough," he finishes.

"You are most welcome," Valjean says, reaching over to give Enjolras' hand a fleeting squeeze. "It might sound odd, given the circumstances, but I should thank all of you boys as well."

"Thank us?" Enjolras asks, bewildered but curious, wondering if this has anything to do with the changes he senses in the man who has very rapidly become a father figure to him, someone he trusts implicitly when such a thing would normally take some time.

Valjean remains silent for a moment, glancing out the window at the driveway, presumably watching for the carriage containing Cosette to arrive back home, before turning back to look at Enjolras, scanning his face, lips curving upward again in a small smile.

"I never thought I'd get to remain in Cosette's life after she was married," Valjean admits. "I never pictured a life for myself after she was settled and happy. It seemed like that would be the end for me, my purpose extinguished after a long and treacherous life, a life I feared would taint her new happiness. And now, I'm so pleased to find that hasn't ended up being so. But then sometimes, I'm not sure how to proceed forward when I had no plan in place. There was always a plan for the future even as I looked behind to ensure my past wasn't catching up with me."

Enjolras feels the breath catch in his chest as the empathy floods through his veins, fluid and warm.

"I thought of the future a great deal," Enjolras says. "But it was the future in abstract as far as my own personal life was concerned: the future of France, the future of the people, a future where a republic would exist. It was never really my own future, because thinking of myself beyond the barricade never seemed to happen. I wasn't expecting to die, necessarily, nor did I wish, I was only willing…and I of course went about completing my studies, though it took longer because of my work for the revolution. I just… I'm not sure."

"I know," Valjean says, and Enjolras feels an odd relief rush through him. He's never heard those words uttered before, exactly. Not in this type of conversation. "It is difficult to explain, isn't it, the idea of feeling, of knowing, your fate is intertwined with someone or something other than just yourself?"

Enjolras nods, folding his hand as he contemplates the patterns in the wood floor for a moment. Since a moment he is not sure he can quite put his finger on, perhaps it was a string of moments, he's felt his life intertwining with the revolution, with the cause, every inch of him living and breathing for it. For that, and for the friends who were all tied up with the very same cause. It is the same for Valjean, he imagines, when it came to Cosette. Cosette is still Valjean's most important priority, as the revolution and said friends are Enjolras', but now both are faced with new worlds, forced to adapt to their new situations, looking for new ways focus on these priorities: Valjean because Cosette is now set to be married and is no longer a child, Enjolras because he is now a fugitive, surviving where he easily could have died, free where prison nearly awaited him, encouraging his friends to live their freedom even as he must always live in some semblance of secrecy.

"You and your friends," Valjean continues, and Enjolras looks back up once more. "You have given me renewed purpose, now that Cosette, though of course she still loves me, does not need me in the same way as before, which is something I still grapple with. I would not have wished this situation on any of you, but I am pleased to be the one to whom it fell to help."

"So am I," Enjolras says, smiling fully for the first time all day. The sound of Combeferre on the stairs reaches their ears and they both look up to greet him, their hearts connected in feeling.

* * *

Sometimes, Combeferre regrets choosing medicine.

He doesn't do so often: he's not a man who spends a great deal of time regretting things, doing his best to focus on the here and the now, focusing even more on the future, on putting his thoughts into the actions Enjolras always urges him toward.

The first time he recalls the prickly, uncomfortable feeling of regret spiking at his stomach was when he'd watched a ten-year-old girl die of Cholera. Her poor, desperate parents brought her in to Necker; the father with a stoic expression etched into his face but with tears in his eyes, the mother with shaking hands she tried desperately to keep steady. All he could do was make her comfortable, and he'd stood at the edge of the bed as her parents held both her hands, her young life slipping away before him. They weren't like so many of the others, so poor they could not afford food enough to keep their children from starving, even before the cholera took them, never mind medicines. These people had money enough, and still the girl had died, Combeferre's best efforts all for naught, and he had been helpless. Regardless of money, of politics, of any of the injustices in the world, illness and disease would claim it's due. If they'd brought her in earlier, he thought. But he'd known it was also possible that she would have been dead nevertheless. If he wanted to enter the sciences he could have done anything else, research, his infinite curiosity was enough to study ten different fields and it would never be enough. But he'd chosen medicine because of the inherently human side of things, the people he could help, the lives he could save.

So despite the moments when despair threatened him because of all the death he saw, he always saw the light flooding in from all the lives he saw saved because of excellent doctors, their compassion, because of slow but sure medical advancements. One day, he prayed, everyone would have access to quality medical care, and he would fight for that. So in the end, he could not regret.

He senses a familiar sensation however, as he watches Enjolras sweat and shake in front of him; he's made a great deal of progress, but today is a bad day. He's having Enjolras attempt to walk back and forth across the parlor without his cane-he will need the cane as some support for a good while, but this will strengthen his muscles in the meantime- while Grantaire stands by, ready to catch him if he stumbles.

Then, he does.

The carpets are Enjolras' greatest enemy, and he stumbles, his bad leg crumpling beneath him. Grantaire seizes him as gently as possible before his injured shoulder comes into contact with the floor, and quickly sits him in the nearest chair. Enjolras visibly shakes now, resting his head in one hand as the other clutches at his leg. Combeferre squats down beside the chair as is his habit.

"I fear I might be sick," Enjolras admits.

Combeferre grimaces: this would not be the first time Enjolras vomited from pain.

"Focus on breathing for a moment," Combeferre says, eyes flickering up to a concerned Grantaire before focusing back on Enjolras. "It may pass."

Enjolras nods, one hand sliding down to grasp Combeferre's.

"Should I get a glass of water?" Grantaire asks, looking obviously unsure, still growing used to his role in Enjolras' rehabilitation.

"That would be excellent, yes, thank you," Combeferre says, looking back over at Grantaire with a smile.

Grantaire nods and leaves the room in a rush, heading toward the kitchen.

"Still feeling sick?" Combeferre asks as Enjolras sits up again.

"Yes," Enjolras says, still surprising Combeferre with his honesty about his physical condition. "But not as if I will vomit my last meal, I think." He pauses for a moment before a flicker of amusement sparks in his eyes. "I do wish we had moved on to the fencing or the Savate; at least that way I will have done some real physical activity before being reduced to such a state."

"You are too hard on yourself, as usual," Combeferre says, but it is with a soft tone and a fond smile. There is no room in his heart for even the hint of a lecture when he sees how pale Enjolras is. "I think we are done with this for today, but there is something I'd like to try."

"What's that?" Enjolras asks, understandably wary.

"Hydrotherapy," Combeferre replies, watching Enjolras' face. "It's been proved to be effective in rehabilitation."

"An ice bath?" Enjolras asks, and just for a moment, Combeferre sees a flash of what five-year-old Enjolras' expression might have looked like as his friend scrunches up his nose disdainfully.

"No, not ice," Combeferre corrects. "Just cool water."

Enjolras frowns, surveying him, then releases a sigh.

"It will help?" he asks, unsure, but clearly giving in.

"That is my hope, yes," Combeferre replies. "It cannot hurt, in any case."

Silence falls between them for a moment while they wait for Grantaire's return, until Enjolras' voice breaks through.

"You got your letters to your professors out to post today?" he asks. His voice is soft, but there is the barest hint of a demand within it, yet oddly mixed with a strained sort of pleading.

"Yes," Combeferre says with a smile, a reassurance. "Hopefully I shall hear back promptly, and with positive news."

"I'm sure you will," Enjolras replies. "You were, as Courfeyrac might say, the  _darling_  of your professors."

"Oh," Combeferre scoffs, rolling his eyes, looking pleased nevertheless.

"Who is whose darling?" Grantaire asks, returning with a glass of water in hand.

"Enjolras is trying to convince me that I was the darling of my professors," Combeferre answers, watching as Grantaire takes care to make sure both of Enjolras' shaking hands are firmly around the glass before he lets go. "So much so that they will allow me to take my exam at a university nearer to Avignon. In Marseilles, hopefully."

"Ah well," Grantaire says with a smirk. "I'm sure he's right there."

"You all flatter me," Combeferre says. "But they will allow it because they are reasonable men."

"And because you were ever their favorite," Grantaire prods, drawing an amused smile from Enjolras.

"Anyway," Combeferre pronounces, shaking his head at the pair of them. "Grantaire, I was just speaking with Enjolras about trying this procedure I was reading about, hydrotherapy. It essentially involves soaking his leg in cool water for a period. Are you amenable to helping?"

Grantaire pauses for a moment, hesitant, before replying, confidence brimming in his features.

"Certainly," he says, oddly brief.

Twenty minutes later they are in the privacy of Enjolras' room, door locked to prevent intrusion, tub filled with cool water. Enjolras stands at the foot of the tub in his dressing gown and underthings, looking massively unsure. This does not slip past Combeferre, who knows Enjolras well enough to know that he needs the situation normalized, if possible, in order to feel comfortable. Grantaire too, looks nervous at the intimacy of the moment, so Combeferre does what he knows best: he picks up the textbook from Enjolras' bed, and begins explaining the origin of the procedure.

"Hydrotherapy has been around in different forms for quite some time," he begins, catching Grantaire's eye, inclining his head in indication that he should help Enjolras in so he doesn't slip. "Though it re-emerged in the modern world with Vincenz Priessnitz, a farmer, of all things, in the Austrian Empire."

Enjolras, looking up from his preoccupation starting at the bathwater, smiles fleetingly at Combeferre, realizing what he's doing, and slips off his dressing gown, putting his hand out to Grantaire rather than crossing his arms over his chest in embarrassment. Grantaire takes it, loosely at first, then grasping firmly, his hands no longer shaking from withdrawal.

"There was also a work written by an English physician, John Floyer, last century, about the use of springs and cold bathing, and then another by a Dr. James Currie, speaking on its uses for helping with fever," Combeferre continues, watching as Enjolras winces while he slips in, letting go of Grantaire's hand to grasps the sides, white-knuckled. "And though your fever is gone, Enjolras, I want to continue to watch out for it, which is more than enough reason to try this." He halts for a moment, watching Enjolras. "All right?"

Enjolras releases his grip on the sides of the tub, stretching his legs as far as they'll reach, his knees still bent.

"I'm rather cold," he says. "But it does help with the pain, a bit."

Enjolras grits his teeth against a momentary wave of pain, and Combeferre watches it pass over his face. Grantaire too, watches Enjolras, concerned as goosebumps wash across the pale skin.

"I can read a bit, perhaps, to distract you from the chill?" Combeferre suggests. At Enjolras' nod, he points to the table on the far side of the room. "Grantaire, if you might hand me that book there?"

Grantaire does, raising one eyebrow fondly.

"Thomas Paine's 'Common Sense' and 'The Rights of Man' published together," he says, handing the book over. "How am I not surprised?"

Enjolras narrows his eyes at Grantaire, clearly at the end of his rope what with being cold, in pain, and naked all but for his underthings, half dunked in water.

"Oh do not look at me in such a way," Grantaire says. "Your glare does not pose much power at present, and I only tease. Of course words of liberty and revolution  _would_ put you more at ease."

Enjolras continues glaring for a moment before a small smile breaks out, clearly pleased that Grantaire challenged him as he might any of the others. It is a return to normality and a progress all at once, and Combeferre feels his heart lift a little as he opens the book.

"Well read, that one," Enjolras remarks, glancing at the worn cover. "That was the copy I stole from my father's room after he confiscated it. He never did find it again."

"You must have been a handful," Grantaire says, dry. "As ever. And was Tom Paine not an enemy of Robespierre?"

"My, you are on this afternoon," Enjolras says, amusement in his eyes, and Combeferre thinks, a flash of Joly and Bossuet. "And 'enemies' for given meaning of the word, I suppose. But both men and revolutionaries whose ideas I respect, and look to. I fight the battle they both lived for: liberty and a republic. Not the specifics of their own political differences. Quiet now, and listen to Combeferre."

At those words, Combeferre looks down at the page to words he's nearly committed to memory, lines underlined by the quill of an adolescent Enjolras:

_Perhaps the sentiments contained in the following pages are not yet sufficiently fashionable to procure them general favor; a long habit of not thinking a thing wrong, gives it a superficial appearance of being right, and raises at first a formidable outcry in defense of custom. But the tumult soon subsides. Time make more converts than reason…_

* * *

Courfeyrac did not think he would ever witness the day when Marius could speak more words in a day than Courfeyrac himself.

Turns out that was an incorrect assumption, because even as Courfeyrac quietly shuts the door to the drawing room where Marius and Cosette sit, Marius is  _still_  talking. Something about shopping for the groom's suit bolstered Marius' confidence, bolstered his excitement for the wedding even more. And as truly pleased as Courfeyrac is to see that, to see his friend blossom and grow into himself, to see him happy where he'd once been so sad, right now, Courfeyrac is worn out.

Between spending most of today shopping with Marius and Cosette before meeting Feuilly and Grantaire at a café in Avignon to discuss the potential employment opportunities Feuilly found (experienced painting jobs, it turned out, were not too far between in Avignon), and the new round of nightmares plaguing him through most of the previous night, Coufeyrac feels his mind screaming at him for silence, for quiet. He loves people, revels in company, but for now, he desires quiet company, and few moments to close his eyes and recharge.

Before he quite realizes himself he's at the top of the stairs and in front of Enjolras' door. He did a great deal of walking in Paris, but as of late he's been more sedentary, so all the walking around Avignon left him sore and aching. Sleeping tensely, he muses, was likely not much help. He gives the door his signature knock and enters at Enjolras' call.

"I thought that was you," Enjolras says, closing the book he was reading and placing it on the bedside table. He surveys Courfeyrac's face for a moment, eyebrows furrowing in concern before he realizes what's happening; this isn't new between them, this silent exchange. He fluffs up the pillow beside him, and at that signal Courfeyrac walks over and flops rather dramatically on the bed, landing on his stomach, facing Enjolras.

"Tired?" Enjolras questions.

"Mmmmmmmm," Courfeyrac grumbles. "Marius has somehow learned there are not a limited number of words one might speak in a day. I love the fellow, but he has worn me out. Which I never thought I'd say."

Courfeyrac trails off, leaving the mention of his nightmares hanging in the air.

"And you are having nightmares again?" Enjolras questions, tentative. He doesn't want to push, but Courfeyrac is also aware that Enjolras knows him well enough to sense these things. Enjolras' instincts about his friends' distress, Courfeyrac thinks, is always spot on.

"How did you know?" Courfeyrac asks, drawing small patterns with his finger on Enjolras' shirtsleeve.

"You look so tired," Enjolras says, watching Courfeyrac's finger. "You so rarely look this tired. Your smile falters a bit. I know you, Courfeyrac."

"So you do," Courfeyrac replies, feeling the smile tug at his lips.

"Anything I can do?" Enjolras questions, reaching down to flick a curl out of Courfeyrac's eyes; this is one of the things Courfeyrac loves most about his friend, because while Enjolras might not be someone to tackle anyone to the floor in an embrace, he is naturally tactile, so much so it is almost a reflex as opposed to anything he thinks on. There is always a shoulder grasp here, a hand clasp there, returning hugs full on when they are given to him and he senses the person needs the affection.

"This," Courfeyrac says simply. "This is enough."

"You found Marius a suit then?" Enjolras asks, and Courfeyrac doesn't miss the small pinch of momentary pain in Enjolras' face, his hand going down instinctively to his leg.

"Indeed we did," Courfeyrac says, rolling over onto his back and closing his eyes. "It took him AGES to decide on a color for the waistcoat, I thought we were going to be there for a year. He never cared a damn dash for any of the fashion tips I gave him in Paris, walking around in that hat that was too big for him, but now he suddenly is consumed. He decided on blue because it matches Cosette's eyes. That is romantic, I suppose. But Marius is a romantic, so."

"And you are not?" Enjolras asks, raising both eyebrows in disbelief.

"Hmmm," Courfeyrac replies, thinking on it. "I am, in a sense, but not in the same way as Marius is, or Jehan was. Of course Marius is lowercase romantic, while Jehan was Romantic  _and_  romantic if you understand me." Courfeyrac stops, feeling the smile on his face even as the metaphorical knife twists in his gut. What a strange thing grief is, utter joy at the memories he possesses and holds onto for dear life, mixed with near complete agony at missing the friends he's lost. At everything they've lost, at everything they are trying to keep hold of.

He feels Enjolras reach over to squeeze his hand, opening his eyes to look over, seeing just how tired Enjolras himself looks. Combeferre too, had looked tired when Courfeyrac saw him downstairs, and he suspects there was a rough rehabilitation session today.

"I miss them, Enjolras," Courfeyrac says, feeling the tears fill his eyes, and he does not try and stop them.

"I know," Enjolras says, voice a hoarse whisper. "I do too."

Courfeyrac moves over so that his head rests on Enjolras' good shoulder, Enjolras' head leaning on his, their height difference just enough.

"Sometimes I do not know how to move forward without them," Enjolras says. "But I also know that every day I am thankful that I have you, Combeferre, Feuilly, Grantaire, Marius, and Gavroche, that we made it out. That we have Valjean and Cosette. That Jehan, Bahorel, Joly, and Bossuet," he continues, saying each name with a holy reverence. "Would want us to find a way to keep fighting. I didn't know it possible, but I want to push forward more now than even before. In their memory."

There is a slice of the fervor to which Courfeyrac is so accustomed in Enjolras' voice, and though Courfeyrac knows there is a long road ahead of them, knows that grief ebbs and flows, something about the sound comforts him as he nods into Enjolras' shoulder.

"We found suits for everyone, actually," Courfeyrac says, darting back over to the other thread of conversation. "Since none of have anything wedding appropriate here yet."

"You…" Enjolras begins, bemused. "How?"

"Don't be foolish," Courfeyrac scoffs, sitting up momentarily on his elbow. "I know my friends' measurements, I've dressed all of you at least once. Combeferre was not surprised by this."

Enjolras chuckles, and Coufeyrac feels his eyes drooping out of exhaustion.

"Of course not," Enjolras says.

"Read to me?" Courfeyrac asks, allowing his eyes to close and his mind to breathe, smiling at the image in his head of just how delighted Marius and Cosette were today.

"It's a mystery novel of some sort," Enjolras says, sounding unsure.

"Now that's something I never thought I'd hear," Courfeyrac says, burrowing further into the pillow. "You finished the other novel I gave you already?"

"I did. And Jehan taught me the power literature can have and I appreciate it a great deal," Enjolras answers, offended. "I rather enjoy analyzing it and seeing the messages."

"Of course it can have power," Courfeyrac says, almost mumbling now. "Much power. But I don't know about a mystery novel."

"I needed something simple," Enjolras admits, yawning himself. "I am rather tired after today."

"I know," Courfeyrac says, popping one eye open, sympathy in his voice. "I don't mind it's a mystery novel. You read delightfully out loud, and it shall relax me."

Enjolras smiles again and Courfeyrac closes his eye, listening to the pleasant, passionate sound of Enjolras' voice.

* * *

Cosette has just finished changing for bed when she hears a knock on the door. Out of habit, she assumes it's her father, and as her hands are currently tied up in plaiting her hair, she calls for him to enter.

So when Enjolras cracks the door open, book in hand, and pokes his head in seeing her only in her nightgown, he steps back.

"My apologies Cosette," he says, uncharacteristically mumbling, his natural modesty overcoming him.

"Oh, Enjolras, don't apologize," she says. "Let me just slip on my robe and you can come in."

Enjolras nods, shutting the door a bit for a moment, and Cosette slips on her new silken light blue robe that Marius says matches her eyes.

"All right," she calls. "Come in."

He does, and Cosette notices he looks tired, leaning on his cane more heavily that he has over the past few days. He's still dressed, though he's in his sock feet and devoid of his waistcoat and cravat.

"You've brought a book!" she exclaims, putting her hands silently on his shoulders and guiding him to her reading chair. It's a sign of how tired he is that he makes no protest or move to say he's fine, simply allowing her to sit him down, taking his cane and leaning it against the ottoman and helping him put his slightly trembling leg up.

"Yes," he says, clearly thankful for her silent help over fussing. "Combeferre and I were perusing through the box of his things his parents sent and we found this."

He holds out the book to her and she takes it, reading the title of the cover aloud.

"Declaration of the Rights of Woman and the Female Citizen," Cosette reads. "By Olympe de Gouges. This is the piece you mentioned to me before."

"It is," he replies with a nod. "You don't have to read it of course, you just mentioned wanting to learn more, so I thought I'd perhaps bring it by."

"You thought correctly," she says. "What happened to this woman? Did she survive the revolution?"

"Er, no," Enjolras says. "But nor did many of the most influential men and women: Robespierre, Danton, Desmoulins, Marat, Saint-Just, Madame Roland. There was much in-fighting between the Jacobins and the Girondists, in the end, and paranoia on all sides, given that so many foreign countries were attacking and siding with the king. But the loss, the rise of Bonaparte, the return of the king, it doesn't make the words of revolutionaries past any less powerful. In fact I believe it makes them more so, the fact that it all fell apart. They remind us that we cannot stop fighting until we achieve our end. Perhaps not even then. They started something, broke down pre-conceived notions about society and the way it should work, and that cannot be trodden down. Ideas are powerful."

Cosette smiles, feeling admiration fill her up to the brim. Enjolras, seeing her enthusiasm, continues, and she can almost see the light surrounding him, can almost feel its warmth tangible on her fingers.

"I grew up surrounded by women like my mother and my grandmother, women who had, at least to my eye, an equal standing in their husbands' eyes. The revolutionary works I read were exclusively by men, because the men were more well-known and far more in print. In fact the first thing I read wasn't even French, it was Common Sense by Paine. Anyway, for a good while, I was so focused on getting the vote for all men, landowners or not, on the land taxes on the poor, on establishing a republic at all, that I admit, women's rights, women's suffrage, things like that did not wholly occur to me."

"Well," Cosette says. "I admit that until I met all of you, the idea of not having a king was not something that occurred to me. Papa and I have always helped the poor, handed out food, and I wanted things to be better, but overthrowing a system of government? We all learn and grow in time, expand our minds."

"We do indeed," Enjolras says, breathing a small sigh of relief. "But when I came to Paris, when I met Combeferre, I started learning more, as he has always been a proponent of women's rights, looked to the examples from the revolution and criticized some of the leaders for not always paying enough attention to equality between the sexes. He is an avid reader of Condorcet, whose wife Sophie was a great friend of Olympe de Gouges," he continues, pointing at the book. "I am still learning, but I know more now, that while we are of course out for the equality of all, that each group of people has their own set of problems and hardships they face, including women. I often find myself looking at the larger picture, as they say, and sometimes I need to be directed toward the facets."

Enjolras looks away for a moment as if he does not see her, and there are ghosts in his eyes in the form of his lost friends, in the form of the world he sees so clearly in front of him and which he must find new ways to fight for. After a minute or so, Cosette reaches her hand out and lightly covers his, drawing him back into the present.

"You know, before all of this happened, my world was a bit small," Cosette begins, and Enjolras meets her eye again, holding the gaze. "First it was the Thenardiers and vague memories of my mother, and all I knew was misery. Then papa came and opened my world a little wider, and I was happy; there was the convent, my books, little things, a life where I was loved, and yet I always wanted some sort of adventure, felt that the wider world was maybe just outside my window, but I didn't quite know how to reach it. Then there was Marius, and that love broke open everything and I felt alive. Then papa came home with all of you and suddenly there was this entire universe." She stops, abruptly feeling unsure. "I don't mean to make your loss and your grief about me or make less of it, I…"

"Cosette," Enjolras says with a soft, sad chuckle. "It's all right. You have been through much yourself, and I know you would not make light of anyone's pain."

At this, Cosette simply cannot help herself; she wraps her arms around Enjolras, hugging him tightly. It takes him a moment to realize what's happening, before he wraps his good arm around her-his injured one is in a sling for the day to prevent further pain after the physical therapy-and embraces her in return.

He pulls back first, smiling at her.

"You know, I think you would have gotten along well with our friend Joly's mistress, Musichetta," he says, contemplative. "Courfeyrac has long wanted to write her a letter since the barricades fell, and the loss of Joly and Bossuet, to let her know we are alive at least, to send her some comfort, but Combeferre believes we should wait a while, for our safety and hers. Unless we can find some clever way of coding it. I'm sure with Combeferre's and Feuilly's intelligence, we could, but the point is, as I learned after getting to know her, she was quite interested in the rights of women, very literary and easy to speak with. The books I'm sure the two of you could converse over would be many."

"You were all friends with her?" Cosette asks, as usual intrigued by the goings on of these young men her fiancé so respected. Marius once admitted to her that he had initially been intimidated by them, had even ceased going at one point, before Courfeyrac practically bodily dragged him back.

Enjolras laughs, and the sound makes Cosette smile. "Musichetta and I got rather off on the wrong foot due to some preconceived notions. But once we understood each other better, yes. She did not fear to challenge me, and I learned to appreciate that a great deal. Grantaire knew her quite well also, due to the amount of time he spent in Joly and Bossuet's rooms."

Cosette watches the laughter disappear from Enjolras' eyes, feeling her soul sink simultaneously at the sight. She squeezes his hand lightly, and he looks at her, a spark of light returning to his gaze. There's silence between them for a moment, until Enjolras speaks once again.

"So, are you quite sure about…"

"My plans for the wedding and having the celebration here for your safety?" Cosette asks, quirking one eyebrow. "Quite. Going to argue?"

"About that?" Enjolras scoffs with a wave of his hand. "Never. Though of course there are other things about which I might argue."

"You have Courfeyrac's sass," she comments.

"Or perhaps he has mine," Enjolras says, and there is the tiniest hint of a Courfeyrac-ish smirk on his lips.

"Touche," Cosette replies, laughing. "Thank you for the book. I'll make sure to thank Combeferre as well. I can turn to reading this to keep my mind off all the wedding nerves. It is only three weeks away, after all!"

"Nerves?" he asks, unbelieving. "I have so far only seen excitement and much talk of ribbons and cake frosting."

"You tease me again, you foul man," she says, flicking his arm gently.

Enjolras purses his lips for a moment, disguising a twitch at their corners, "It is, I think," he says solemnly, "What brothers are for?"

Cosette reaches and out flicks him playfully on his good arm, then Enjolras silently allows her to help him to his bed. Here in Enjolras, in all these young men she thinks, she truly has found all the sibling love a part of her always longed for.

 


	35. Wedding Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to my dear ariadneslostthread, who gave me the ideas for the dancing scenes in this chapter ages ago and I am pleased to finally implement them! :D

The house is quiet the evening before Marius and Cosette’s wedding. Truth be told, this surprises Valjean, particularly as the house is doubled in occupancy: Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s families arrived as they promised, having bonded with Cosette during their visit, and M. Gillenormand has arrived as well. It will be a small but merry ceremony, Valjean imagines, hoping that everything goes smoothly with the plan they’ve devised for Enjolras’ disguise.

There’s a knock at his door, and out of habit, Valjean jumps, ever ready for the shadow around the corner, the threat in every alley, a mark of his vigilance and conditioning ever since he broke his parole in the first place.

“Papa?” Cosette’s voice asks. “Might I come in?”

“Of course,” he responds closing the book he was really only pretending to read and offering up a smile as she enters.

She’s in her nightclothes and dressing gown, hair plaited as it always is before sleep even if sleep appears to be the last thing on her mind.

“I thought I might find you here,” she says, sitting down in the chair on the other side of the desk, the ornately carved block of wood separating them. “Not sleeping either?”

“I don’t require all that much sleep, as you know,” he says, a fond smile forming on his lips. “But tonight in particular, I admit I am too overcome with my own thoughts to sleep.”

“I share that same feeling,” Cosette replies, returning his smile, and resting her chin in her hands, elbows perched on the desk. “You know, Papa, I had the most horrid dream last night.”

Valjean’s ears perk up, and he frowns slightly.

“A nightmare? Why did you not tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Cosette says. “It was something so awful that I was afraid to share it. I don’t wholly know why but…” she trails off.

“I understand,” Valjean says. And he does. Perhaps better than anyone else. “But may I ask what you dreamt?”

Cosette blushes, but looks at him straight on, unafraid if a little embarrassed.

“I dreamt that you disappeared after my wedding,” she says, a melancholy disturbing her contentment. “And I couldn’t find you anywhere. I didn’t know where you’d gone.” She pauses, fixing a serious expression on her face, and once more Valjean is surprised at just how well Cosette’s gaze seems to bore down into his soul. “Papa forgive me, but…you wouldn’t ever leave or try to separate yourself from me, would you?”

Valjean hesitates: old habits die hard, and it’s his instinct to evade the question. It’s not lying, exactly, but a refusal to tell the truth for what he feels is Cosette’s own protection. But he contemplates her expression, remembers their long, heartfelt conversation in the Luxembourg Gardens, remembers the path they’ve traveled since he brought the boys home from the barricade. He breathes in, releasing slowly and allowing his daughter, for one of the few times since he took her in, to see his vulnerability in full.

“There might have been a time, a circumstance in which I might have tried to separate myself from you,” he admits. “Never for a desire to do so, but because I always feared my past would ruin you. With Inspector Javert no longer a threat that seems less likely, but I have never thought myself worthy of you, my dear.”

Cosette moves to speak but Valjean’s hand silences her, and he continues.

“I am not so talented at forgiving myself for the wrongs I have done,” he says. “But I am trying to be better. You have helped immensely with that. Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Grantaire, Marius, and Gavroche have helped with that. It is a process, even at my age.”

“Papa,” Cosette whispers. “All the good, the immense good you’ve done far outweighs any ill. You have changed people’s lives. Saved them. Saved me. Please, say you won’t go.”

There is a shade of desperation in her tone he has not heard since she was small, and their hands reach out simultaneously for each other, meeting in the middle with a soft exchange of smiles. Cosette’s is anxious until she sees one of Valjean’s very rare easy grins slide onto his face, thinking of just how happy his daughter will be tomorrow.

“I promise my dear,” Valjean says, fear lacing through him even as he says the words, but he brushes it away. He will not run any longer, he will trust in this sense of peace, and feels he can do so while still being careful, particularly with Enjolras’ situation. He can live fully while still being vigilant, he thinks. He can, at least, try.

At this, Cosette smiles wide and squeezes her father’s hand. She sits back again, a draft of melancholy sweeping over face again.

“Do you think…do you know if my mother would be proud of me?” Cosette asks, her voice a mix of young woman and child all at once.

Valjean starts a little, trying to hide it. He is still unused to discussing Fantine so openly with Cosette, but it makes sense, now especially, that she would want to talk about her mother, would miss the woman of whom she only recalls blurry images and vague words, built up as a martyr in her head.

“She would be proud of you for being the exceptional young woman you are,” Valjean tells her. “Married or not. Though I know she would be pleased to see you so immensely happy with Marius. I did not know her long, but I know that you were everything to her. I know how I’m feeling right now, how joyous I am for you, and I imagine she would feel much the same. Does feel the same, as she watches over you.”

There are tears, and Cosette lets them fall, sunlight in her eyes and melancholy on her lips.

“She sacrificed everything for me,” Cosette whispers, an odd mix of the little girl Valjean knew so well and the young woman she is. “I don’t know how to honor that, I don’t…”

Valjean reaches across the desk, bridging the gap between them covering one of Cosette’s hands with his much larger one, and using the other to tilt her face up toward his.

“Be happy,” he says, matching her tone. “Live your life fully and without regret, when you can. That is what she would want for you.”

Cosette nods, and Valjean finally moves out from behind the desk, resting on his knees in front of her and taking both of her hands in his, similar to what he’d done with Enjolras a few weeks previous. There is a fierce look on his daughter’s face, and with a smack of realization, he sees that there are embers in her eyes that look as if they have been lit by Enjolras’ fire, by all of the fire in each of those young men and the spirits of their friends. It is her own, and though he does not sense that she is off to build barricades, he knows she wants to do something.

“My mother didn’t have very much opportunity to be happy,” Cosette says, looking him in the eyes. “Because society was merciless to her. Cruel. It wasn’t fair to her, it wasn’t fair to you. To Feuilly, to Gavroche. To Eponine. My mother was blessed to find you, and I was blessed you found me, just as Feuilly and Gavroche were blessed to find their friends that gave them a family. Imagine if you had not come for me? I would have been left to live on the streets much as they were. It is to Feuilly’s immense credit that he found a way for himself in the world, who knows if I could have? But I want to do something, I want…” she trails off again, unsure where her thoughts are going.

“You’ve been reading the books Enjolras and Combeferre received from their rooms,” Valjean surmises, saying the words slowly and with a question at the end.

“Yes,” she admits. “And reading those words, and through my own experiences, through the experiences of people I love…thinking of how happy I am and how she never really got the chance…I just want to do something. I want to change things. I don’t know how, yet, but I want to do something.”

“No barricades, I hope?” Valjean asks, voice slightly strained.

“Well,” she says “I don’t know how to shoot yet…”

“Cosette…”

“I’m teasing you Papa,” she says, placing a hand on the side of his face, a smile returning to her lips. “I’m not planning on building barricades. But I want to do something.”

At this, she slides her arms around his neck, hugging him with every ounce of love and affection resting inside her monumental heart.

“Thank you Papa,” she says, her voice muffled a little against his collar. “For everything.”

Valjean clears his throat, unsure if the words will come out.

“Thank _you_ ,” he says, and he does need to specify, does not need to elaborate, because Cosette, in all the wisdom surprising for someone so young, knows what he means.

That she taught him, showed him in all its glory with her trust and her unconditional, trusting affection, what love is.

* * *

“Marius,” Courfeyrac declares. “You fidget more than any human being I’ve ever met in my life. And that includes Enjolras when I attempt to dress him for parties.”

“I’m sorry,” Marius laments, truly apologetic. “I’m simply nervous.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says, softening a bit. “But if you don’t stand still a bit I’m never going to get this cravat tied properly, tightening your waistcoat was enough of a task.”

Marius straightens then goes still, trying his best once again, and finally Courfeyrac finishes tying off the cream colored cravat.

“There,” he says, patting Marius’ cheek with affection. “I think that will about do.”

Marius nods, but still feels unsure, sticking his hands into his pockets; just as quickly, Courfeyrac pulls them out again.

“You’ll wrinkle them my good man,” he teases, concern growing in his features as he realizes something’s bothering Marius. “What’s the matter?”

As ever, Marius wonders how he ended up as Courfeyrac’s friend. Granted, Courfeyrac could befriend nearly anyone, but this was different. Somehow he had ended up one of Courfeyrac’s closest friends and he’s never really been certain why. He’s never been sure why Courfeyrac seems to trust him and care for him as much as he does Enjolras or Combeferre, as much as he does any of the inner circle of Les Amis, whether dead or alive.

“Do I look all right?” Marius asks, evading.

“Did I not dress you?” Courfeyrac asks, lips forming a half smile drawn up with wit. “You look dashing. And not in all black, which is a good change. Your propensity for never wearing color always astounds me. But you are avoiding the question.”

Marius curses Courfeyrac’s ability to read him, to read anyone, so well. He’s run away from it plenty of times, particularly when they were living together because once confronted, it was fairly impossible to avoid Courfeyrac. Marius averts his eyes, turning to look in the mirror again.

“We’ve only got a few minutes…”

“Marius,” Courfeyrac says, channeling a bit of Enjolras with his determined, no nonsense tone.

“What if Cosette changes her mind?” Marius blurts out, voicing what even he knows is his most ridiculous fear that he cannot quite let go of. “What if she doesn’t want to marry me? I’m…I’m not the sort to get married, am I? Women do not pay me mind, I am not cut out for this, Cosette is the only girl that ever noticed I was even alive, really, and maybe it was pity… I…”

“Marius,” Courfeyrac says, very, very kind, taking him carefully by the shoulders and sitting him carefully in an empty chair. “Breathe for a moment, my friend. Listen to your words. Think.”

Marius does, and finds that his breathing eases a bit.

“You know Cosette well, do you not?” Courfeyrac continues with the air of an older brother.

“Yes,” Marius says. “Far better than I have known anyone. No one knows me better than she: not my grandfather, for certain, no matter his recent kindnesses, which I am grateful for.”

“Then you know she would never notice you, and certainly would not marry you, out of pity,” Courfeyrac says. “She loves you.”

“She will be my family,” Marius whispers, voice a tad tremulous. “We can start one of our own, have children. All of us will be family now. I did not have that as a child…well I did, but it’s not the same…I mean to say…”

“Marius,” Courfeyrac says a third time, silencing Marius’ ramble. “I understand your meaning. I have not experienced it, but I understand: your mother died and you never knew your father because of your grandfather’s actions.”

“I had a family, but I was lonely so often that it did not always feel like a family,” Marius admits. “I know my grandfather loves me, I know he is perhaps trying to make amends for his previous actions, I only…this is new for me, this kind of family. This life.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says, a certain kind of sadness tracing his words, and Marius knows he is thinking of their fallen friends. “I also know it is sometimes common to fear things when they seem too good to be true, but you should believe in your love of Cosette and hers of you. It is beautiful and to be treasured.” He squeezes Marius’ hand in comfort. “Besides,” he continues. “If you don’t marry her I cannot then dance with her, and I will not be robbed of that, Marius Pontmercy.”

At this, Marius cannot help but laugh, feeling the nerves (mostly) leave him.

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, arching one eyebrow. “It appears as if I shall win that bet with Grantaire.”

“What?” Marius exclaims, voice emerging with a bit of a squeak. “You made a bet about me? On my wedding day?”

“You cannot possibly be surprised,” Courfeyrac says with a shake of his head. “Bahorel would be ashamed of me if I did not, so I did it in his memory. Though Prouvaire might scold me, I’m sure he would forgive. Besides, do not look so fretful, I bet that you would not pass out! Grantaire bet otherwise, so you should take it up with him. He’s the one who doubted your stamina.”

“You are so wicked perhaps I will not tell you about the news then,” Marius replies.

Courfeyrac whips around. “Do not use my own sass against me, Pontmercy.”

Marius, incapable of holding out, sighs with a roll of his eyes. “Fine. Valjean has convinced my grandfather to sell him the home in Avignon, on the grounds that it will be easier for him to upkeep if it’s in his name. Then when the time comes, it will pass down to Cosette and myself.”

“Clever man,” Courfeyrac says with an approving nod. “Covering all of his points. I’m sure he’ll feel a bit more secure with the entire story of why we’re here with the home in his name. Besides that, your grandfather is an elderly man, and it is easier to keep up with less property at his age, I would imagine.”

Marius is about to respond when his grandfather pokes his head into the room, a most pleased expression on his face: he is half in love with Cosette himself, and has been waiting for this day.

“Well my lad,” he says. “It is time! Come, you must not keep the lady waiting.”

“Indeed not!” Courfeyrac exclaims, ushering Marius out in front of him. “To the altar, sir! For your nuptials.”

So Marius goes, his heart fluttering in his chest as the door closes behind him. Many things have ended, he thinks. Things have been difficult and painful and tumultuous. But things are also beginning. They are beginning here today as he weds Cosette, the girl who appeared as if out of a dream.

Today, he thinks, dreams are real.

* * *

Feuilly has never been to a wedding, but if all weddings were like this one, he decides, he would rather enjoy them. Well, aside from the guarding his fugitive friend in a disguise bit, but he supposes you can’t have everything. Courfeyrac was busy with Marius, Combeferre was assisting Valjean with something in the back, and Grantaire, bless him, was far too amused at Enjolras’ disguise to be trusted with watching him properly, so it fell to Feuilly, who didn’t mind. He could tell Enjolras was uncomfortable with the outfit and also not very fond of having to be guarded, but put both aside in favor of being present for Marius and Cosette’s wedding.

“You are fidgeting, Rene,” Feuilly says with an easy smile. He is unused to addressing Enjolras by his first name, but here in public he must be referred to as ‘Rene Fauchelevent’ which Feuilly had caught Enjolras practicing saying to himself in the mirror this morning.

“Oh, my apologies,” Enjolras says, looking over at him. “This coat is…rather itchy and a bit warm for the weather outside.”

Feuilly runs his eyes over his friend: he’s wearing a light wool coat, far too warm for August, his golden waves of hair stuffed up under a hat, shirt collar high and covering at least part of his face. The story for Marius’ family friends and any locals who might ask is that Enjolras is Valjean’s sickly son, recovering from illness and so must be kept warm inside the drafty church. Because Enjolras is, technically speaking, the brother of the bride, he and Feuilly must sit in the front row, and so Enjolras’ fidgeting is noticeable.

“I do not believe the family friends will stay at the celebration very long,” Feuilly says, leaning in to whisper into Enjolras’ ear. “And we will be safely at home then, so hopefully you won’t have to wear this for too much longer.”

“It’s all right,” Enjolras lies, eyes flitting momentarily over to his parents and grandmother, who sit with Courfeyrac’s parents a few rows behind them. Feuilly notices Violet wink at her grandson, and Flora notices, shaking her head, but there is an obvious twinkle in her eyes that look so much like her son’s. Feuilly watches as Aubry catches his son’s eye, and to Feuilly’s immense surprise, winks as well. Enjolras looks a little taken aback but offers his father a smile before turning back around.

“Weddings,” Enjolras mumbles. “They put something in the air.”

“Indeed my friend,” Feuilly says, distracted by Grantaire’s voice on his other side.

“Marius looked so pale this morning I thought him a ghost,” Grantaire says. “Courfeyrac and I have bet on whether or not he will pass out.”

Feuilly raises his eyebrows. “You convinced the best man into betting on the groom?” he chides.

“It’s _Courfeyrac_ ,” Grantaire protests with a grin. “It didn’t take any convincing.” His smile falters a bit, but there’s still light in his eyes. “Besides,” he continues. “Joly and Bossuet would be ashamed if I didn’t make a bet. I am not hoping to win necessarily, but we shall drink to the bet in their name either way. In the name of good fun at the slight expense of our dear friends.”

“Yes we shall,” Feuilly says, squeezing Grantaire’s hand briefly, the same shared sentiment between them.

Grantaire leans around Feuilly to speak to Enjolras, a spark of mischief in his eyes now.

“Doing all right, _Rene_?” Grantaire says, emphasizing the name. Feuilly shakes his head fondly: Grantaire always had an odd way of teasing Enjolras that Enjolras was never quite able to decipher as teasing and that Grantaire veiled under mountains of allusions and miscommunication, but now there’s a new, fragile easiness between them, and even as Enjolras gives Grantaire a reprimanding glare, his lips quirk upward.

“Ah, nearly time,” Combeferre whispers, sliding in on the other side of Enjolras.

“Is V…” Enjolras begins, almost forgetting himself. “Is my father all right?”

“Calm as ever, oddly,” Combeferre says with a sly smile. “Hands are a bit shaky but I’m sure that’s to be expected.”

Soft music coming from the piano alerts Feuilly to the presence of Marius and Courfeyrac coming to stand in the front. Marius _does_ look pale, Feuilly sees, but it seems as if he will maintain consciousness so far. But there is a light in his eyes Feuilly scarcely recalls seeing before, bright and unending. Courfeyrac of course, is practically beaming, hands gently moving Marius a little closet to the altar and brushing off the edge of his jacket. Their waistcoats are complementary shades of blue: Courfeyrac’s is dark navy, Marius’ light and pale, both with silver buttons, both selected by Courfeyrac.

“Courfeyrac looks nearly as pleased as Marius,” Grantaire mutters in his ear, amused.

“Well,” Feuilly replies, smirking. “You know Courfeyrac. He likes to play matchmaker, loves encouraging these things. And I’m sure he heard more about Cosette from Marius than any of us.”

Louder music begins and Feuilly makes to stand, noting that Enjolras, despite his injury, is already up, leaning a bit on his cane, the other hand grasping the wood of the pew as he turns around to look at Cosette, a wide smile slipping onto his face. Feuilly cannot help but smile in return at that. Enjolras doesn’t even really need to pretend to be the happy brother, because he already is, blood ties or no. And in that moment as Cosette walks slowly up the aisle on Valjean’s arm, the older man looking as if he might actually be glowing, Feuilly realizes something: he has a family here. He’d always had a family among Les Amis of course, that was undeniable, and they were the first people he’d truly trusted, truly felt at home with since he was a child. The bond between all of them was not something easily severed. But he’d always known they also had families at home, something he did not. But now… now there is something different. Four of their friends are dead, never lost to them, but beyond their physical reach, and this event, added onto most certainly by Enjolras’ fugitive status and the fact that none of them can really return to Paris in the near future, has cemented their bonds even further. They are forming a family now that is separate from everything they’ve ever known, securing places and a home that are at least some semblance of permanent. Avignon is their home now, and despite all the grief he feels in his heart for his lost friends, despite the heartache he feels at having lost at the barricades, despite the turmoil and the uncertainty, he feels safe. For Feuilly, this is saying much. Safety is not a thing he’s felt for a long time, and it sits well in his chest. They will continue their work, he is certain, they will make a difference, and they will keep fighting. Together. Perhaps it is odd for him to feel safety in such a circumstance, but he does nonetheless.

Gavroche passes by him after Cosette, having been talked into minding the train because no matter his very vocal complaints about dressing in finery, he cannot truly refuse Cosette anything. He winks at the four of them as he walks by, carrying the rings. With his tuft of blonde hair tied back, he looks, Feuilly muses, a little bit like Enjolras might have as a child, though his expression is decidedly a bit more impish.

“Hmm,” Combeferre says, amused. “I see his hair is his tied back like yours again, Enjolras.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but blushes a little, though Feuilly is certain he’d swear it was a touch of fever. “It’s long and this is a special occasion, of course it is,” he insists.

They all fall silent as Cosette and Valjean reach the altar, and the older man takes both of his daughter’s hands in his, looking in her eyes with a lifetime of emotions contained within, and knowing as much of Valjean’s story as he’s divulged, Feuilly feels himself choking up a little at the sight. For Valjean, this is the happiest moment of his life because finally he feels as if the person he loves most will be well taken care of, will be happy for certain. His face radiates joy, and Feuilly knows he’s never seen him this joyous, and it is a lifetime in the making. He imagines an exhausted, desperate Valjean, broken by poverty stealing that bread from the window for his sister’s starving children, arrested and sent to the galleys. Treated like nothing more than an animal in the eyes of an unforgiving society whose rules are merciless. Yet one man had shown Valjean kindness and instead of ignoring that as a fluke, Valjean took it, learned from it, letting it soak into his soul. So here he stands now, well and simply put together, walking his daughter to the altar. He kisses her forehead, and for a moment Feuilly is reminded of how Enjolras looked at the top of the barricade, pure love radiating from him. That love had been for friend and country, but it wears the same as Valjean’s for his daughter, something almost too powerful for this world. Valjean puts Cosette’s hand in Marius’, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder once before coming to sit at the end of the pew next to Grantaire.

“Congratulations monsieur,” Feuilly whispers, feeling his respect for this man burgeon hot and strong in the center of his chest.

“Thank you my boy,” Valjean says, offering a smile to Feuilly.

The child still resting within Feuilly, the child who still misses his own father very much sometimes, fills with glee at the term of endearment, one Valjean seems to use more and more frequently with all of them.

“All right, Rene?” Valjean asks, winking at Enjolras.

Enjolras nods quietly, a fond twinkle in his blue eyes that Feuilly knows well is reserved for the people he loves most, and not an expression he offers just anyone. All their eyes fall back on Marius and Cosette and though Feuilly hears the words, he hones in on their faces as the ceremony begins. Cosette’s dark blonde hair falls in curls down her back, a departure from the pinned up style Feuilly knows is common for such occasions, eyes glowing with the happiness of someone who knows what it is to suffer. Cosette is a small slip of a girl, but Feuilly knows from experience what kind of strength she contains within, a sweetness that is remarkable for someone who has been through the things she has. He’s felt a connection to Cosette since the start, given his own life and circumstance, and he treasures her like the little sister he never had.

While he’s always liked Marius (they’ve had several very good conversations on languages) they’ve never been exceedingly close and found him rather bewildering in the past, but as he’s gotten to know him better, seen him grow and change and adapt, expanding his mind in the presence of Les Amis and most particularly in the past months since the barricade fell, an affection for their youngest member has grown in Feuilly’s heart separate from his usual role as Courfeyrac’s particular friend. Marius loves Cosette with every ounce of his person, that much is clear, and seeing these two joined together sets Feuilly’s heart alight: Cosette is the daughter of a poor woman who sacrificed everything for her daughter, a daughter she was forced to give up, a daughter who ended up being raised by a man who had once been in poverty himself, a convict who ran from his parole and had to live life in secrecy. Marius was the grandson of a very wealthy man who had, at least at one time, been a very ardent royalist, growing up in luxury, at least in physical sense (in light of his recent overflow of generosity, Feuilly is doing his best to forgive M. Gillenormand’s treatment of Marius). Society’s current rules would spill forth a thousand reasons why they shouldn’t be together, and yet here they were before him, joining in marriage, their lonely souls no longer so in each other.

Feuilly isn’t always certain where he stands on the idea of miracles, but right now in this moment, he’s certain he sees one right before him, small as it may seem.

Progress, he thinks, is beautiful.

* * *

Cosette is sure she’s never been quite this happy.

Well, she considers, perhaps the day Papa came and took her away from the Thenardiers, that was arguably tied for the happiest day of her life, though that day had been so muddled with hearing of the death of her mother, of being so incredibly surprised at someone coming to rescue her, that she thinks she didn’t feel the full impact of that until months later on a random afternoon eating dinner with her newly found adoptive father. He’d smiled at her as they were eating, a real, genuine expression reserved just for her, and in that moment, her seven-year-old self somehow knew this man, this parent, was not going to leave her. Something in her spirit melded with his in that moment, something that could not be undone.

They’ve arrived back at the house now, and Cosette sits by Marius’ side on the back veranda while everyone eats, her hand resting in his as he speaks to a couple that have long been friends with M. Gillenormand, and one of the few who made the journey to Avignon for the wedding. The sun is high in the sky, but it is not too warm, an ideal mid-summer day by all accounts. Her attention drifts away from the conversation at hand, her eyes landing on Courfeyrac, who stands in front of one of the tables containing his family and Enjolras’ (who, for the sake of Enjolras’ disguise, are pretending to be old family friends of her Papa) and seems to be entertaining them most thoroughly with a story she cannot quite make out. He gestures exuberantly with his arms without spilling a drop of his wine, a talent Marius says he spent significant time perfecting. A moment later he draws an downright jolly laugh from Aubry, and grins. Violet, she notes, has taken hold of Gavroche, who sits next to her, grinning at whatever story she’s telling him, likely something about American Revolutionary War about which she has a great plethora of tales to tell.

Courfeyrac, she thinks, is most certainly in his element.

Her eyes dart over to the next table, where Combeferre, Enjolras, Grantaire, and Feuilly sit. Much like Courfeyrac, Grantaire appears to be the entertainer of that table, in the best mood Cosette thinks she’s seen him in since they met. Combeferre is shaking his head and laughing at the story, Feuilly is outwardly chuckling, and Enjolras is smiling. The name Joly catches her ear, and she shares the smile. She knows they are all still grieving, still in pain, but it is so nice to hear them talking about their friends and laughing, sharing good memories of them. Not for the first time, she wishes she could have met the four missing pieces of their little family by force of friendship. She eyes the patio, which has been turned into a small dance floor by Courfeyrac and Flora’s efforts, with a little help from Madame de Courfeyrac and Grantaire. She looks back up at Enjolras, and has an idea.

“Darling,” she says, turning to Marius. “Since we’ve had our first dance would you mind terribly if I asked Rene to dance?”

Marius grins almost instantly, raising his eyebrows, amused. For an instant, there is a flicker of Courfeyrac in his face.

“Do be my guest,” he says, sounding as if he is not convinced Enjolras will dance. He kisses her hand. “I was just about to go over and speak with your father and my grandfather,” he continues, gesturing to the corner where the two are talking. Cosette is not surprised to see her father off to the side of even this small party: he’s never been much for crowds and immensely social situations.

Before she can turn to go, Marius pulls her to him, as close as is proper in front of others, and kisses her lightly on the lips, and she feels the happiness spread to the tips of her toes as she scrunches them up in her shoes. Pink tinges Marius’ cheeks even now, and he squeezes her hand as they separate.

Enjolras is the first one to spot her as she approaches, and he looks at her quizzically when she holds her hand out to him.

“Dance with your dearly beloved sister on her wedding day?” she asks, teasing in her voice, but she still loves saying the words.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, eyes round as Combeferre smirks next to him. “I don’t…my leg. And this ensemble is not entirely conducive…”

“Your leg will be fine for a bit,” Combeferre says, speaking up.

“I’ll hold you up, don’t worry,” Cosette says, taking his hand before he can refuse. “Though you may have to let me lead.”

“All right,” Enjolras consents. “But I don’t know how quality of a dancer I am.”

“That is a lie,” Grantaire immediately informs Cosette. “I have seen Enjolras dance before begrudgingly at a party or two. He is very light on his feet.”

“So Courfeyrac has told me,” Cosette replies.

Enjolras sighs. “Do you spend some kind of inordinate amount of time speaking about me when I am not present?”

“A fair amount,” Cosette says without pause, looking over at Feuilly, who has remained quiet as though he does not want her to notice him for fear she will ask him to dance as well. “You are next in line, Feuilly,” she says pointedly. “No one is allowed to refuse the bride on her wedding day.”

“Of course not,” Feuilly says, finally meeting her eye. “But I warn you: I really am a bad dancer.”

“Not as terrible as me,” Combeferre states. “Now off with the two of you.”

So they go, and Cosette puts them out on the side of the dance floor, leaning Enjolras’ cane up against a table and gesturing for him to rest his weight on her.

“You are happy,” Enjolras says simply.

“Yes, exceedingly so,” she replies, starting to lead, only really knowing how because she’d insisted her father teach her how as a little girl. “That outfit looks uncomfortable.”

“It is a bit itchy,” he admits. “And that hat a bit stuffy, but it is not too terrible when all is said and done.”

“Perhaps if your hair did not glow with the light of the revolution,” Cosette says, laughing mid-sentence. “Then we would not have to hide it so.”

“You have been talking with Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says knowingly, both exasperated and affectionate all at once.

“Courfeyrac will scheme with me more than anyone else,” she says, proud. “So yes, of course I have.”

At that moment a blur of blue catches both their eyes and neither can help but laugh when they see Courfeyrac half-dragging a protesting Marius out onto the dance floor, insisting something about how the best man is owed a dance with the bride AND the groom for all of his trouble.

“Courfeyrac is very in his element here,” Enjolras says, smiling over at the other pair.

“I was just thinking that myself!” Cosette exclaims.

“He practically glows in situations like these,” Enjolras says, fond. “I am not as talented, I fear, but Courfeyrac always makes me feel exceedingly comfortable whenever I’m with him at a party.”

“It is his best talent,” Cosette agrees. “But do not give yourself so little credit: you are quite charming.”

“I suppose,” Enjolras says. “If you say so then it must be true.”

“Is that teasing I hear, Rene?” she asks, laughing as he leads for a brief moment in order that he might twirl her about.

“I am not _always_ so serious,” he protests.

“No,” she says, taking the lead again as she feels Enjolras trying hard not to lean on her. She pulls him a little closer, silently letting him know that it’s okay. “I have heard enough tales of your puns to know that.”

“Now you have been talking to Combeferre.”

“Indeed I have.”

“Combeferre rolls his eyes at my puns yet laughs uproariously to himself when he comes up with a clever one,” Enjolras replies. “It is a most confounding contradiction. Though I imagine we all contradict ourselves sometimes.”

“We do,” Cosette says. She pauses, then goes ahead, saying what’s on her mind. “You know, I am rather pleased to have a brother like you. I always wanted a brother. Now I feel I have several.”

“I am pleased to stand in,” he answers, sincere. “And I am glad I could be here today. I am sorry for the trouble it might have caused.”

“Oh hush,” Cosette, says, swatting him gently on the arm. “Marius and I wanted you here. You intimidated him so at first, you know,” she says. “So he told me. But then he grew to admire you so much. All of you. As for me, well, I feel as if I’ve known you all my life as opposed to just a few months. It’s funny how that happens, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Enjolras says. “It seems as if some of the closest friendships I’ve had felt that way. It certainly did with all of the Amis.” He winces a bit, hand instinctively letting go of Cosette to grab his leg.

“Oh!” she says. “Let’s get you sitting down.”

They’re about to head back to the table where Combeferre, Feuilly, and Grantaire are sitting, until two people come up behind them.

“Here Enjolras let me help,” Marius says, and it is a sign of Enjolras’ own exhaustion that he accepts Marius’ arm. He’s been doing well and improving with rehabilitation, but he still has to build up not only his damaged leg muscles, but his entire body’s endurance after being so ill for so long. “Cosette darling, please dance with Courfeyrac or he will never be quiet about it.”

“Indeed I shall _not_ ,” Courfeyrac says, emphasizing the last word, but looks at Enjolras with concern. “I have been saying for weeks that I must have a dance with the bride.”

Enjolras smiles, nodding at Courfeyrac to let him know he’s all right, and Courfeyrac nods back, taking hold of Cosette and twirling her about.

“I saw you leading Enjolras about Madame,” he says. “Do show me.”

Cosette laughs again agreement, sending Enjolras a smile in thanks as Marius helps him back to the table.

Yes, she thinks again. This is the happiest she’s ever been. As she looks around at the people around her: Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s families that have come here to support her and this new family they are all a part of now. The young men at the table next to them (Gavroche is now standing between Combeferre and Feuilly, who is fussing with the cravat they’d barely gotten him to wear) that are now an integral part of her life. Her gaze falls on her Papa, the man without whom she would most assuredly not be standing here, who somehow has been convinced over to talk with M.Gillenormand’s friends. She looks around for Marius, a bit alarmed when she doesn’t see him. Then she hears his voice beside her, a hand held out.

“Might I cut in?” he asks, looking just a bit more handsome than she thinks he’s ever seen him.

Courfeyrac grins again, putting Cosette’s hand in Marius’ before bowing slightly and going off to join his friends, leaving the couple alone on the dance floor.

“Are you happy?” Marius asks, shyness in his tone.

“Happier than I’ve ever been,” she answers, resting her head on his chest. Surrounded by all these people she loves, dancing here in her new husband’s arms, Cosette Pontmercy feels utterly, completely safe.


	36. Returns, Memories, and New Beginnings

The moment Javert sets foot in Avignon, his anxiety eases, the knot in his stomach uncurling ever so slightly. He’s been traveling for two extra days, making the usual seven into nine due to a broken stage coach, and there’d been a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach the entire journey. There’d been something telling him that he’d never get here, that he’d never find his answers, that Valjean and his daughter and those insurgents were long gone.

_Why does it matter_ , that familiar voice asks him, the voice that’s been his only companion for weeks on end, the voice that agrees and disagrees with him in nearly the same instant.

“It matters,” he mutters aloud, having ceased to care about whether or not strangers hear him. He’s too far gone for that, and he doesn’t know these people, no longer has any impression left to make now that he’s no longer an inspector, now that his life is in pieces before his eyes.

He has nothing left to live for except these answers from these people he feels he is obligated to despise and yet begrudgingly respects. Nothing left to live for, and yet he cannot face the bridge again, cannot wipe Cosette’s face from his mind, her pull on him strange and confusing. She has not committed the crimes of her father, but she must approve of them.

Musn’t she?

_That is not her fault_ , the voice tells him, soothing.

Why does he care?

Does she also agree with the crimes of her rebellious new housemate, the revolutionary with embers in his eyes?

He shakes his head, firming his stride as he walks down the street in search of the address of an inn he has written down on a piece of paper. It’s a recommendation he took from Bertrand, whose family is from a town near Avignon, and often stayed overnight in order to rest.

_“My family might be able to house you, if I sent a letter on,” Bertrand offers with a kind smile. He is one of the few people who knows Javert’s home address in Paris, and had unexpectedly shown up, concerned over Javert’s well-being._

_“No, thank you,” Javert says, firm but trying to be polite, trying with every fiber of his being to hold onto some semblance of his former self, some makeshift sense of propriety._

_“Well, at least try this inn,” Bertrand says, handing him a small slip of paper, and Javert wonders when he’d even let the word Avignon slip past his lips in anyone else’s presence. “I don’t know how long you’re staying, but they usually have a fairly large contingent of long term resident types for travelers and things.”_

Not really knowing why, Javert had taken it, and after a few minutes walking about Avignon, he finds himself standing in front of the door. He’s always had a solid sense of direction, likely from so much time spent roaming the streets as a child and needing to find his way in the dark. But he’s never even been to Avignon before, and yet he hadn’t struggled, hardly even recalled the past few minutes after exiting the stagecoach.

He stops short of going inside, considering his appearance for a moment: he’s shaved all of once during the journey, his long, but normally well-kept hair mussed, clothes wrinkled.

_They’re used to travelers_ , the voice soothes him. _They won’t notice the inner turmoil._

_Yet._ A sinister tone edges in.

Moments from several weeks ago flash in his mind, complete with vivid color and ear crashing sound.

_Valjean riding up like a hero from some damned novel Javert would never pick up._

_The sun glinting off Enjolras’ hair and bathing his pale, blood speckled skin in light._

_The pounding of hooves on the ground as the other insurgents arrive._

_The gamin screaming at him when he’d taken Enjolras away, his eardrums ripping with guilt at the sound._

He’s right. They’re right. He’s wrong. They’re wrong. It’s a contradiction of reality, and one he must sort out. He squares his shoulders, stepping back toward the inn. He doesn’t even have a plan, doesn’t have a strategy, doesn’t know if he’ll knock on their door tomorrow or in six months.

For the first time in his life, the grey slips in, a fog over everything, blinding him, choking him. And as he steps into the inn, it envelopes him.

* * *

Grantaire isn’t much of one to always know exactly what the date is. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. Today is an exception to that rule, because not only does August 6th mark two months since the fall of the barricade, since the beginning of this strange new life, it also marks what would have been Bossuet’s 30th birthday. Were Grantaire up to his old habits, he would likely be currently halfway through a bottle of absinthe. As it is, he sits on the portico in the cooling summer evening, his chair situated between Courfeyrac and Feuilly, with Enjolras and Combeferre across from him. There is a half-full glass of wine in his hands from which he takes small sips. A letter rests in his pocket, written but unsent, a letter to Musichetta that he wants to show to his friends first, to make sure it’s safe, that it will not give Enjolras away.

“Do you remember the year Joly attempted to throw Bossuet a surprise party?” Courfeyrac asks with a grin. “What a glorious laugh that was.”

“Joly couldn’t keep that kind of secret if he tried,” Grantaire mutters fondly. “He didn’t even have to say what the secret was, but by his mere demeanor one knew that he did in fact _have_ a secret.”

“Bless him though, Bossuet did act surprised,” Courfeyrac adds, nodding, a hand squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder briefly. “Even if he wasn’t, entirely.”

“And Joly was delighted,” Enjolras says, a smile slipping onto his paler than usual features. They’d had a rather intensive rehabilitation session this morning, and while Enjolras was making progress, he was far quicker to tire than he had ever been before.

“Joly was the definition of delight, I think,” Feuilly says, sipping at his own wine.

One cannot talk about Bossuet without speaking of Joly, Grantaire muses, nor can one talk about Joly without mentioning Bossuet. It is fitting that they are together in death, because Grantaire does not like to think on them being separated even if they are both separated from all of them. From Musichetta. From him. His two closest friends gone in one fell swoop.

“Honestly Joly and I could have used Bossuet’s help to decorate for his own surprise party,” Grantaire says, trying to wade through the melancholy and focus on the people in front of him through the haze in his heart. “The wine we drank hit us a bit harder than we thought, and if not for Musichetta those decorations probably would have been fairly hopeless.”

“Bossuet was oddly talented at home decoration,” Courfeyrac muses. “And putting things together. Certainly one of his more domestic skills.”

“I do wonder how Musichetta is faring,” Combeferre says, concern tinging his tone. “She’s a strong woman, so intelligent, but this loss, well…I’m sure she feels it as we do.”

At this, Grantaire sees his moment.

“Actually,” he says, pulling the folded letter out of his pocket. “I’ve written this letter to her? I wanted to speak with all of you first, given the safety risks here, but…” he trails off, his words so rarely failing him.

“Wanted to let her know of our situation,” Combeferre finishes for him.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, appreciative. “And to possibly see if we might know of hers.”

“I can only imagine she feels as we do,” Feuilly says, echoing Combeferre’s words, looking down into his glass for a moment before looking up at his friends again.  “I should like to know how she is: I always did enjoy it when she was around. Her knowledge of books alone was fascinating!”

“I enjoyed her sense of humor a great deal,” Enjolras replies, studying Grantaire’s face for a moment as he hands the letter over.

“That’s because she sat and made up the most horrific puns with you,” Courfeyrac says, jabbing Enjolras lightly in the side.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, shoving him back. “She did not trust me much at first, if you’ll recall.”

At this, Grantaire laughs, the sensation chasing away the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach for a few moments. He remembers the sounds of Enjolras and Musichetta bickering, remembers, a few visits later, hearing those same two voices laughing together.

“She had a picture of you in her head, and it turned out you were not what she expected,” he says. “You challenged her expectations, but she was stubborn, which she was fully willing to admit, so it took her a bit.”

Enjolras smiles at the memory before looking down to read the letter, Combeferre’s eyes also landing on the page from the chair beside him.

“Do you think it safe to send?” Grantaire asks after a few moments.

“You don’t mention any of our names,” Enjolras says, handing it back. “You don’t even mention the barricade, just that we are safe in Avignon with family. And you signed it ‘R’ so she’ll certainly know who it’s from, even with the vague details. I too, should like to know how she fares, and to let her know that we are thinking of her.” He looks to Combeferre. “What do you think?”

“I think no one could discern anything from this letter that would put us in danger,” he says, agreeing. “Especially considering the world thinks you dead.”

The fact of that, the words and their still raw newness, settle down between all of them, leaving them silent for a moment.

“Well,” Courfeyrac says. “Hopefully if the correspondence continues we shall be able to become clever about communicating almost via code. Let us send it, I say. Risks are always worth it for friends.”

“Yes,” Feuilly agrees. “I’m sure even Valjean couldn’t argue with this. It will be a time before we hear back, but I think it will do all of us, Musichetta included, good to hear from one another. Joly and Bossuet would certainly want it.”

Grantaire raises his glass to that. “Madame Bellard heard me mention that raspberry tart was Bossuet’s favorite, so she’s in the kitchen making one in honor of his birthday. I think with Cosette’s assistance. She sent Marius to Avignon with Valjean and Gavroche, because last time he tried to ‘help’ her with the baking he set something on fire.”

“Bless him,” Courfeyrac says, fond.

The room descends into a silence that recognizes the missing people, the spaces between them where their friends should be. After a few moments a soft chatter begins again, and Grantaire slips out, half-full wine glass still in his hands, and retreats through the house to the garden. The sun is setting behind the trees, but it’s still mostly light out. He remembers teasing Joly about his love of sunsets, remembers Joly’s reply and Bossuet’s grin.

_“The sky is going to sleep, R, and even though it bathes the world in darkness there are still pinpricks of light in the stars. I think it’s beautiful.”_

_Joly’s hand swatting his arm, Bossuet ruffling his hair._

_“You sound like Jehan.”_

_“I think we could all do with sounding a bit more like Jehan, sometimes,” Bossuet adds._

“Grantaire?”

Enjolras’ curious, concerned voice draws him back to the present.

“Are you all right?” Enjolras asks, leaning on his cane, but so as heavily as he has in the past few weeks.

Part of Grantaire wants to lash out, but he buries the urge, turning to face Enjolras.

“Not really,” he says, not possessing the emotional energy to lie or even to put up a façade.

Enjolras offers him a sad smile, honest with his emotions even before he speaks rather than trying, as always, to remain visibly strong for the rest of them.

“I’m not really either,” he says. “It’s such a strange feeling…bittersweet, I’d call it. Missing all of them, but also remembering them so fondly. And thinking of Bossuet today in particular.”

Grantaire takes a gulp of his wine, wishing, wishing, _wishing_ it was liquor, closing his eyes against the urge, because he will not give in, he can’t, he’s already been through too much hell that he does not care to repeat: the vomiting, the shaky hands, the hallucinations. The sheer, absolute hell.

Enjolras takes his silence as invitation, and really, it is.

“I know that…” he hesitates, and it sounds odd for his usual directness. “That you losing Joly and Bossuet would be like me losing Combeferre and Courfeyrac. We all loved them of course, we were all a family, but they were your dearest friends.”

Grantaire gazes at Enjolras for a moment before nodding, returning the smile even as his heart beats with an ache he’s grown all too familiar with. Yet he feels somehow more awake to life now than he has in a long time, and the two feelings collide strangely.

“I’m glad we all decided upon sending this letter to Musichetta,” Grantaire finally says. “She always teased me about talking too much, but I personally think she rather enjoyed it. After all, Musichetta didn’t spend time with people she didn’t like.”

“No,” Enjolras answers, chuckling. “She certainly didn’t.”

“Fiery,” Grantaire says, affectionate. I thought she might drive Joly mad when they first met. Bossuet was a rather balancing influence on the two of them. And their dramatics. When they would fight and Bossuet couldn’t seem to make a dent, he’d just come to my rooms for a little while for the quiet. He usually stayed with Joly, but at those times he stayed with me.”

“Quiet? Around you?” Enjolras teases.

“The Courfeyrac in you is making itself apparent,” Grantaire says, flicking him lightly on his uninjured arm. He is still not completely used to this new easiness between them. It was not as if they hadn’t shared moments before, it was not as if they spent all of their time fighting or anything of the like, but rather miscommunicating. But there had always been a wall between them, one they could reach around but not through because Enjolras was too focused on his work, and Grantaire too fearful to go beyond a belief in his friends and into a belief in the cause or even himself. Their friendship has taken on a newness, and pleased as Grantaire is, he is still adjusting. Still telling himself that he won’t lose this too, won’t lose this trust Enjolras has placed in him.

“All of this time we’ve spent together doing your rehabilitation has certainly taught me that you have some snark,” Grantaire continues.

“Well, I did very much appreciate Bossuet’s sarcasms,” Enjolras says. “So I felt I should use some myself, on his birthday, even if it was a bit at your expense.”

“You never cease to surprise me,” Grantaire admits. “The moment I think I have you figured out, well…”

“Hmmm,” Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow. “I could say the same for you.”

“I shall return that sarcasm when you least expect it,” Grantaire says, turning to look at the sky, resting his elbows on his knees.

Enjolras smiles again and turns to look with him, as they both wish Bossuet a silent happy birthday, watching the sunset Joly loved so much, all their souls touching across the expanses of life and death.

* * *

As has become his habit when alone, Enjolras sits out in the garden, a book in hand. Feuilly found it in a shop in Avignon and read through in a matter of days before pressing it into Enjolras’ hands in eagerness. Feuilly himself was in Avignon: he’d found part-time work doing some advertisement painting for an older widowed woman who was running her husband’s business with the help of her adolescent son, and from the way Feuilly talked, they seemed like quite the kind, friendly people. Grantaire had accompanied Feuilly into Avignon, saying he wanted to take in the city a bit. Combeferre was upstairs tending to letters from his professors in Paris and making arrangements to take his final exam at a university in Marseilles in the fall term. It was more a formality than anything, and luckily Combeferre’s professors hadn’t suspected his revolutionary activity, but easily accepted his answer that the air in Paris had made him ill. Courfeyrac was out with Marius and Cosette on the horses, riding about the grounds, perhaps discussing their plans to go into practice. Enjolras has encouraged Courfeyrac endlessly into opening his own firm, as his father has agreed to give him a bit of his inheritance early to cover costs, but it’s obvious to Enjolras that Courfeyrac is still too worried over him to stay gone for too long during the day. Valjean is doing some business in the village, and Gavroche is playing with some friends he made just down the street at a neighbor’s home.

They’re all still adjusting, Enjolras reminds himself. It is mid-August and summer is still in bloom, but is in its twilight now. Somehow June 6th seems like just yesterday and still also as if years have passed. He massages his leg absentmindedly as a small, vague pain shoots through it, reminding him that it, like his heart, his soul, is not healed. There will always be a scar on all of them, will always be moments of pain and of memory.

But he will heal, he tells himself. He will feel better. They all will, one day. Perhaps they do a bit already, even if it is hard to see. That’s the thing about pain, he supposes. About grief and loss. Either you remain in stasis, or it changes you, propelling you forward in a myriad of ways. You ache, you cry, but you learn. You teach.

He knows these things, had talked with Jehan about them at length; about death, about loss, about everything in between, but he’s restless, wishes for a distraction. If he’s honest with himself, he’s envious of his friends and their chances to start building lives here while he must still be careful, must watch every step. He wants these things for them, is happy for them, but frustration with his own system builds in his system with each passing day.

Enjolras’ thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a childish voice calling his name, and turns around to see Gavroche walking swiftly toward him with two children in trailing behind, a boy and a girl.

“Enjolras!” he says again.

“Gavroche,” he says with a smile and a nod in greeting. “Who are your friends?”

“This is Christine,” he says, gesturing with his thumb at the girl, who looks around eight. “And this is Julien,” he continues, doing the same a second time.

“Madmoiselle,” smiling at the little girl, who looks a bit afraid of him. “Monsieur.” He hesitates for a moment. He’s never spent much time around children aside from Gavroche, who is certainly not an average boy of his age. Certainly he’d spoken to a good deal of gamin around Paris, but given their lifestyle, their dependence on the themselves and their smarts and their resourcefulness to survive, makes them a class of their own. He burns with anger at a society that would do this to its children, but sets it aside in favor of focusing on the three in front of them.

“Where do you live?” he asks, kind, but not indulging in that tone of voice he usually hears people use with children that varies greatly from the one they use with adults.

Too shy to answer, Gavroche does it for them, and Enjolras is reminded of the two little boys in Paris Gavroche had essentially taken in as his little brothers. He wonders what their fate will be, without Gavroche. Wonders if they will ever escape the life gamins so often face, and hopes with all his might that happiness is somewhere in their future. Freedom. The part of him that feels so lost, so out of place, steels itself when he thinks of those two little boys, of the woman he saw lighting a candle in the window the night of the barricade. His friends would want him to continue the fight, he’s certain of it.

“Their mother is one of the housemaids in the Beaumont house a little way down the road,” Gavroche says.

There is no mention of a father, Enjolras notes, and he wonders what fate befell him. It is not uncommon, certainly for fathers to be absent or deceased.

“Our father died of cholera last year,” Julien offers, seemingly reading Enjolras’ curious expression.

“Oh,” Enjolras replies, still unsure of himself. “I am very sorry to hear that.”

“This is En…my cousin Rene,” Gavroche says, stumbling for a moment before he remembers the story they’ve all come up with: that Enjolras is Valjean’s son and he Valjean’s nephew. The other two children don’t notice his brief slip up. “I’ve been living with his father, my Uncle Valjean, since my parents…passed.”

A spark of anger heats up Enjolras’ heart when he thinks of Gavroche’s parents, when he remembers Bahorel telling him that Gavroche had been kicked out at the age of four, sent to fend for himself on the harsh Parisian streets.

An awkward quiet falls between them for a moment until Gavroche speaks once more, the sing-song tune of his voice indicating that he wants something. Enjolras doesn’t know a great deal about children, but he does know that tone.

“Enjolras?” Gavroche asks.

“Yes?” Enjolras answers in the same tone.

“You know how you’re teaching me how to read?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I was wondering…” he trails off, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy, scraping his foot back and forth in the dirt.

“Wondering?” Enjolras asks, raising his eyebrow.

“If you maybe could…” he looks back and forth between Christine and Julien. “Teach Christine and Julien? Their dad taught ‘em a little before he died, and their mother only knows the basics and can’t teach anymore. So I was wondering if maybe…”

“I could?” Enjolras says, a smile flickering on his lips.

“Yes,” Gavroche says, a grin on his face as eagerness blooms on Julien and Christine’s faces.

Taking a leaf out of Courfeyrac’s book, Enjolras pauses a moment for dramatic effect, watching as the children lean forward ever so slightly, impatient for his response.

“Well I don’t suppose that would be too much trouble,” Enjolras says, solemn, but unable to keep from smiling.

Quite suddenly Enjolras finds a small pair of arms wrapped around his waist, a small face pressed into his stomach.

“Thank you monsieur!” Christine exclaims, unbridled excitement in her voice. “Thank you!”

Enjolras reaches out a hand and pats her on the head. Then, after a moment, wraps his light around the little girl and returning her embrace.

“You are most welcome,” Enjolras replies, suddenly overcome with a swell of emotion as he hears Julien and Gavroche give their thanks as well. He recalls an early conversation with Combeferre during his first months in Paris, remembers the words so clearly.

_Your dedication to the larger picture is admirable Enjolras, and necessary. You look out for the People with wonderful passion and persistence. But you must also consider the people in what I might call the lowercase._

_The lowercase?_

_Yes. There are the People in the wider way, all of them together. But then there are people with a lowercase p. The individuals who are each a part of the uppercase P. The pieces of the larger puzzle, the separate stiches in the blanket. Both are important, the upper and the lowercase. A balance, if you will._

Enjolras had taken those words to heart, and though he always did lean toward the larger picture, he started noticing individuals, considered their lives and their stories, vowing to fight for each and every one, and as these three children stand before him, tossed away by a society who does not consider their rights, their education, or their happiness, he becomes even more determined to teach them to read, to give them that opportunity which will open doors for a better life.

Yes, he is injured, yes his is a fugitive, yes he is grieving and a bit lost, his life forever changed, but he feels his purpose, bright, hot, and familiar, burn inside him again. Perhaps he is not building barricades or attending secret meetings in Paris, but this he can do, these children he can help. Maybe one day there will be pamphlets again, there will be even more, but for now he will focus on this and them, on changing what to the world may seem small, but to these children is the world, the ability to read and educate themselves. He thinks of Feuilly, and smiles wider.

“Gavroche,” he says. “It is a nice day out. Perhaps you could go inside and fetch our materials?”

“We’re starting right now?” Gavroche asks, an enthusiastic light shining in his eyes.

“Why not?” Enjolras answers. “I am always in favor of action in the present.”

Gavroche nods so hard he nearly falls over, beckoning Julien and Christine inside with him as he goes to retrieve the books, the sunlight glinting off their retreating backs.

Enjolras’ heart lifts in time to their steps, and suddenly his mostly house-bound state does not feel so static.

* * *

It’s Courfeyrac who convinces Valjean to allow Enjolras outside the grounds of the house and into Avignon for the first time since the wedding three weeks ago.

“We will tuck that blonde hair glowing with the light of revolution under a hat,” Courfeyrac says with a wink at Enjolras releases a sigh, rolling his eyes fondly. “That alone will disguise him.”

“It has been over two months since the posters were about and his picture in the paper,” Combeferre says. “The rebellion may still be on people’s minds, but faces fade quickly.”

“I shall be careful,” Enjolras says, feeling slightly as if he is eight once again and asking his father if he might gallop for the first time on his new horse. “I shall do exactly as you instruct.”

“Please, Papa?” Cosette asks, no doubt in the voice she might have used as a girl to convince her father outside of his usual realms of safety.

Valjean sighs, glancing around at all of them, who look back at him expectantly.

“All right,” he says after a solid thirty seconds. “But if I sense any danger, any sign...”

“We will listen,” Feuilly promises, glancing over at Enjolras and Courfeyrac in particular with a knowing look. Noticing this, they both nod.

“Without an argument, without a sound,” Valjean presses, serious. “This is an area in which I am afraid I must call myself an expert.”

They agree once more, and so, just over two hours later find themselves in the city center of Avignon, and Enjolras enjoys the feel of the this freedom at his heels, the sunshine on his back, pleased despite the slight overheating he endures due to the coat Valjean insisted he wear. He reminds himself that Valjean is wise in these matters, that if should like to remain outside of jail or the executioner’s block, he must listen. It’s a warm day, and Enjolras and Combeferre head the group, walking companionably side by side, until Enjolras draws to a halt, eyes fixed on some point ahead. On a figure in the distance.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre questions, squinting into the distance vainly, his eyes, weak as they are despite spectacles, will never rival Enjolras’ unimpaired vision.

“I…” Enjolras begins, hoping they can avoid what he sees but somehow doubting it. “Let’s…let’s walk this way around?” he says, trying to remain casual. He is not sure if what he sees presents danger or not, but memories plague him as sure as the ones from the barricade, bright, colorful, alive, his leg aching with remembrance.

Combeferre shrugs, clearly happy to walk whichever way Enjolras prefers and scans the distance again, still not quite seeing what Enjolras does. It is only when his eyes drop, giving up, that they set upon a figure huddled in the mouth of an alleyway quite close to them. But the figure is not as any of them have seen him before: tall, regal, proud. His clothes are torn and dirty, his long hair unwashed, his skin grey with exhaustion. This is a man whose shattered mind, his broken code, shows in his physical form, on his confused, lost expression. For a moment, Enjolras feels a pang of empathy for a man who has lost his way so thoroughly. Different though their codes may be, and despite the fact that Enjolras is almost always willingly to broaden his view, he knows what it is to be lost.

The biggest difference remains that Enjolras kept a hold, even if it had only been with the tips of his fingers, slowly but surely grabbing a firmer hold after the events of the barricade. He also had people to hold on to, he reminds himself, and without them he might surely be dead. If not for them, he would absolutely be in prison.

The strange empathy for a man who was so cruel to him remains, but after a few moments it is overtaken as the trauma of what he experienced takes root. His friends’ shouts of protests as he was arrested, the overdose of Laudanum, Isabelle bleeding out all over him, death in her eyes, hands pressing him down to the floor, forcing his mouth open, the knife to his neck…

_Why_ is here? _Why_ has he returned?

His fears come to light as Combeferre steps forward, such a fury as Enjolras has never seen before etched into the usually kind, warm features, alerting the others to the man’s presence as several sets of eyes move to fix on him.

Yes, they recognize the figure before them, the figure sending a chill through their bones and over their hearts. There is no sign of his Inspector’s badge, no purpose to his firm step. There is only a glint of desperation, a question, and an odd sort of fear. Whether or not there is danger remains to be seen.

Javert.

 


	37. Why Are You Here?

Combeferre doesn't recall ever being this angry.

Anger is not his default. Frustration is almost constant, frustration at the broken systems around him, frustrated with the state of his country, frustrated with seeing oppression and starvation and illness around him every day; sad, despair threatening but his hope never allowing it to win out. Anger came, but it was slow burning, building up over time, but when he sees Javert there in front of him, something explodes, burning him from the inside out.

His legs stride along the pavement, barely acknowledging the urgency of Enjolras' hand on his arm, pulling it away without even thinking, swimming in a sea of anger, hatred, and instinct. The rationale, logic, and intellect that define him, which he treasures, have departed. There is no risk this time, no knife hovering a fraction of an inch from the pale, fragile skin over Enjolras' carotid artery. This time, Enjolras is not in manacles struggling to stand, agonizing pain shooting through his leg. This time, Enjolras is not at this man's mercy. There is no  _threat_. He makes a decision, flying across the road and narrowly evading a fiacre, despised accusation on his lips.

"You!"

He still cannot say the name, cannot utter the word  _Javert_ , cannot even say  _inspector._

Suddenly he is there, hauling Javert up by the lapels of his jacket. The man's eyes widen in surprise and seeing the fear in them gives Combeferre courage. He hates that, but it's the truth. Seeing this man's terror, seeing all power removed from him, gives Combeferre strength he wishes it didn't. The rational part of Combeferre reminds him that this man is a product of the system they fight against, an enforcer of the system, taking part in this larger injustice. It is not this man in particular, but the system he despises. But, that vicious voice at the back of his head reminds him, this man in particular drugged Enjolras, nearly killed him.

Because he was following the letter of the  _law_.

But the rational part of Combeferre does not succeed. Because this man  _hurt_  his best friend, nearly sliced his throat right in front of all of them, caused immense emotional damage to an already traumatized mind, seemingly only content if he ripped Enjolras' very soul from him.

"Javert." The word he finally says is a hiss, imbued with all the hatred and rage Combeferre has in him, all the rage and anger and fear which overcame him the last time he saw this man, for what he did to Enjolras. With strength he didn't know he possessed, he almost lifts Javert from his feet, slamming him back against the wall, pure adrenaline racing through his veins.

"Combeferre!" he hears Enjolras call his name, but it sounds miles away despite the fact that it's a matter of mere feet.

Courfeyrac watches as Enjolras unfreezes with a start and barely checks for traffic before following Combeferre across the road and into the alley. Grantaire looks murderous, Feuilly white with fury; Courfeyrac is still obviously reeling from shock, watching in horror as Combeferre,  _Combeferre,_ the gentlest and mildest soul among them, snarls at the man he has pinned to a wall, a man much larger than himself.

"Stay here." Valjean orders.

Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Gavroche, Marius, and Cosette all start to step forward, but at one look from Feuilly they listen to Valjean's words and remain, all of them remembering their promise of a few hours ago. They wait anxiously on the other side of the street as Valjean crosses the street to join Enjolras, Combeferre, and Javert, the only one among them who checks for traffic, his stride calm even as his fists clench. Combeferre hears the sure footsteps behind him, and hears Javert utter a barely audible "let go of me, boy" but does not back it up with any movement to defend himself, never attempting to slip out of Combeferre's grasp.

"Combeferre…" Valjean says, voice soft.

But Combeferre pays him no heed, fists curling into the Javert's lapels until they are almost nose to nose. Javert looks frightened at the sight of Valjean, but perplexed, frowning back at Combeferre.

"Combeferre," Enjolras repeats his name, pleading in his tone, and Combeferre does not like the sound of it.

He lets go, stepping back only an inch or two, watching as Javert exhales a breath even as he narrows his eyes in Combeferre's direction.

"Why are you here?" Combeferre snarls, hardly recognizing his own voice, watching as Enjolras' eyes widen at the sound in surprise.

Javert doesn't answer, and Combeferre reaches out to seize his lapels once more, but is thwarted by Valjean, who gently puts a hand on his chest, firmly keeping him back.

"Your inspector badge is gone," Valjean says, eyes flickering to Enjolras for a moment. Enjolras, who is strangely calm, calmer than Combeferre, who finds it immensely bewildering.

"I am no longer an inspector," Javert spits, but there is less venom in his voice than Combeferre imagined. There is an undercurrent of sadness, prevalent and real. There is exhaustion. Combeferre wavers for a split second, characteristic sympathy flooding through.

But then he glances back at Enjolras for a split second, sees his impassive face, sees it morphing into pain, sees a hazy image of this same man holding a knife to his friend's neck, Enjolras' legs shaking so hard they might fall out from under him. The anger floods through him again, hot and unyielding. He feels the blood rush into his cheeks, feels them turning flaming red.

"What are you  _doing_  here?" Combeferre asks through clenched teeth, Valjean's hand still on his chest.

"None of your business, boy," Javert says, still not moving forward, eyes meeting Valjean's.

"Javert," Valjean says, warning in his voice. "Have you come here on the same errand as before?"

He is stern, but more patient than Combeferre can stand. He looks back once more: Enjolras' face is still frozen, betraying nothing in the shock of the moment, but though Combeferre's cheeks are red, the blood has receded from Enjolras', leaving him with a very marked pallor. Courfeyrac stands next to him on one side, Cosette on the other, Feuilly, Grantaire, Gavroche and Marius flanking him from the back, all forming a protective barrier.

"No," Javert finally says, not breaking eye contact with Valjean, almost refusing to give Combeferre the time of day, which only infuriates Combeferre further.

"And what reason would we have to believe you?" Combeferre asks.

"As I said before," Javert says, finally breaking his gaze away from Valjean, eyes flickering to Enjolras before landing on Combeferre. "I am no longer an inspector, and I do not make a habit of lying."

Combeferre hears footsteps behind him, turns to see Enjolras behind him, a little ahead of the protective barrier of their friends. Enjolras' hand is on his shoulder, and it is this and this alone that pulls him even slightly out of his rage, though he feels it coursing through his veins even still.

"Combeferre," he says aloud.

_Please_ , is what doesn't .

Combeferre nods, allowing Valjean to take the lead, hearing Courfeyrac release a soft breath behind him.

"Then why are you here?" Valjean presses, still patient, but there is a bite of fear in his voice, a sliver of uncertainty stuck in the trenches of his firm tone.

Another pause. Another moment. A breath.

"I don't know," Javert says, the flash in his eyes replaced with a lost expression, his entire person crackling with the internal push and pull of this choice, of this breaking of his moral foundation, of rebelling against the system that he's helped keep in place, even if it's a system that's oppressed him all along.

Valjean clearly wants to argue the point, but something stops him, and he hesitates.

"We will go back home," he finally says. "To talk this over further."

"You want to bring  _him_ back with us?" Combeferre asks, hearing his voice rise, feeling the stares of passers-by gathering on them upon them.

Valjean turns, and for the first time, Combeferre sees irritation in his eyes, hears harshness in his tone, even if it's tempered by his usual patience.

"Not  _here_."

At this, Combeferre cannot argue. The stares from people on the street grow more obvious, particularly as Javert looks very much as if he's been half living on the streets for several weeks.

"You want me...to go with you?" Javert asks, an odd crack in his voice that signals shock and expectation all at once.

"Yes," Valjean says simply. "As long as you swear once again that you are not here to harm anyone."

"How could I?" Javert snaps. "Were I to arrest your precious boy now they would know I'd lied about his death. It would only mean immense trouble for me."

Combeferre opens his mouth to tell Javert that he dare not speak about Enjolras in such a way, but is stopped by Courfeyrac's hand this time, good at reading people as he ever is. Courfeyrac's eyes catch Combeferre's, then flit silently to Enjolras' face and then catch Combeferre's again, a quiet signal for Combeferre to pay attention. Combeferre sees that Enjolras' hands tremble even as he stuffs them in his pockets, trying like mad to contain the panic welling up in his eyes, filled with the memories of what occurred the last time he met Javert. Yet there is an odd sort of curiosity in his expression, and Combeferre wonders not for the first time, at all the things that happened between Enjolras and Javert. Valjean turns, and sensing Enjolras' discomfort, walks over to him and whispers something in his ear that even Combeferre cannot hear. The obvious tension in Enjolras' muscles relaxes ever so slightly and he releases a small breath.

"The rest of you may take the carriage back," Valjean says. "Javert and I will walk, it is not far."

"Papa," Cosette says, a tremor of worry in her voice, and Combeferre notes that Javert cannot look her in the eye.

"I will be all right, Cosette," Valjean says, warm as he places both hands on his daughter's shoulders. "Javert is unarmed."

This is both a statement of fact and a reminder to the other man that should he try anything, there is no doubt that Valjean is the stronger of the two of them. Combeferre watches them go, two tall figures growing smaller in distance.

* * *

For the first time in Javert's presence, Valjean doesn't feel even the smallest sliver of fear. In no way does he intend to use this power for ill: that is what Javert has done in the past, and that is what the society around him does. But he would be lying to himself if he said it wasn't a comfort to know he has the upper hand.

"Part of me wonders if you brought me along this road alone to kill me," Javert says with a quick glance. "But the larger part of me knows that is not true. Not after the barricade, when you had your chance. Why didn't you take it? Why did you not kill me and run when you had the chance?"

Valjean pauses, a knot in the pit of his stomach twisting with a breath stopping pain. He remembers that moment, remembers the black thoughts at the back of his mind telling him to kill Javert, parts of the person he'd long left behind rising up and threatening the man he'd become. He'd pushed it down, telling Javert to go, even if it meant risking his freedom.

"I didn't want to kill you," Valjean says, and it's true.

"I threatened your freedom," Javert protests, clenching his fists, frustration in his tone.

"You were doing your job," Valjean says.

"No!" Javert shouts.

"You  _weren't_  doing your job?" Valjean asks, an odd smirk on his face. He supposes he's been around young men far too much as of late, easily picking up on their humor.

Javert sneers at him, falling silent. They both keep walking, their shoes crunching against the gravel of the road. Not in his wildest imaginings had Valjean ever pictured anything like this: he'd pictured going back to the galleys, he'd pictured Javert handcuffing him, cold resolution on his face, he'd pictured Cosette's broken-hearted expression. If Valjean was honest, he'd only just started forgiving himself, forgiving himself for crimes committed and crimes imagined. With Cosette's future assured, with her apparent happiness and his actions in sheltering these young men, he feels more like a human being than the savior he's been ever since the day he left the bishop, since Petit Gervais... since the days when he'd been a different man, but a man he won't forget.

"You look different," Javert finally says, sounding more like a person than the rigid inspector he'd been, the law etched into every crevice of him, the law he clung to in a world that didn't make sense. So he made his own code to make sense of it.

"I'm an old man Javert," Valjean says, bemused. "I'm not the man who left your galleys, even if you've been picturing me that way for the past twenty years."

"Not what I meant," Javert snaps. "You look…happy. Which is odd given the stress of a fugitive hiding yet another fugitive and his insurgent friends."

"You wish to talk to me about my happiness?" Valjean asks, feeling that odd, out of place smile on his face again, a smile in the face of a man who previously only made him feel dread and fear.

"Not particularly," Javert bites back.

"Then why are you here?" Valjean presses, ceasing the slight teasing and reaching the crux of the matter again.

Javert stops in his tracks, taking a few seconds before meeting Valjean's eyes. There is a hard glint within them, but Valjean sees the self-protective nature of it, sees that the man is here because he's lost.

"I want answers," Javert says, finally truthful, voice crisp with determination in harsh juxtaposition to his haggard appearance.

"Answers," Valjean says, and it's not a question.

"You…" Javert stutters, and it sounds strange, a far cry from his usual precise, clipped tones. "You are a convicted criminal yet…you are somehow…moral…moral against the way the law has taught me, but still…" he trails off, unable to finish his thoughts. "And that  _boy_ ," he says, avoiding Enjolras' name, and Valjean sees a similarity in the way Combeferre refuses to say Javert's name. "That boy and the  _look_  in his eyes, like he could set me on fire with his feeling…"

"You are looking for answers about morality?" Valjean ask, somehow not surprised but still feeling unsteady with his words. This is not a situation he ever expected, not one he could prepare for.

"You are a convicted criminal and a good man," Javert insists, almost ignoring Valjean's last statement. "That boy is a fugitive, an insurgent, and yet…"

"He is a good man?" Valjean questions.

Javert meets his eyes again then drops the gaze, hands clenched at his side.

"As the young man who was grasping you by the lapels a bit ago said to me, the system in power functions in black and white, but human beings do not," Valjean says, utterly serious now. "You stood up for the system that did absolutely nothing for you because that system taught you to show no mercy toward people in your own situation, and therefore no mercy toward yourself."

At this, Javert spins on his heel, suddenly vicious, but not really out to physically strike Valjean, his past flashing in his eyes.

"You don't  _know_ me, Valjean."

"I know enough," Valjean argues, not giving up any ground. "I also know what it is to internalize a dislike of oneself."

"Yet you reached out to others," Javert spits. "Showed mercy and kindness to the poor and the prostitutes and the like. I stood by the law and arrested them, thought they were the scum of the earth even though I grew up among them. Tell me Valjean, how did our two paths diverge?"

"One man showed me a great kindness," Valjean says simply. "I emerged from the galleys an angry man, angry at the injustice I was shown, but I was also prepared to take it out on the world, I did take it out on the world until Bishop Myriel changed everything."

Javert tries to sneer, but his face falters.

"I made assumptions about people," he says. "Assumptions I still am not certain are wrong. But nor am I certain they're right. My father was a galley slave and my mother a fortune teller. They were both thieves and liars."

"That does not mean all people…"

"You are a thief," Javert says, cutting him off, yet the statement is nearly a question.

"Yes," Valjean says. "Because my family was starving no matter the fact that I worked. The children were dying."

"People are meant to have their  _place_ …" Javert trails off, stumbling over his words, his argument falling apart as the words leave his mouth. "I went hungry. I became a police officer…I…"

"You did well for yourself, yes. But that does not mean everyone  _can_. You have no resentment toward the system that made it so difficult for you?" Valjean questions, knowing he's pushing the limit of what Javert can handle.

"So you blame it all on the system in place, do you?" Javert snaps, defensive. "No personal responsibility?"

"We all make choices Javert," he responds, softer now, the house coming into view on the road. "I made some choices when I left the galleys I wish I hadn't, I allowed the anger and the hate to take control of my heart. But the society we live in is not compassionate, though individual people are. We punish people who steal to feed their families, and yet they are not paid enough to do anything else. What choices are they left with?"

Javert doesn't answer.

"I made my life about helping individuals when I saw them in need," Valjean continues. "I opened that factory to give the people in Montreuil sur mer a way to earn a living. Enjolras and his friends…" Valjean stops for a moment, seeing Javert tense at Enjolras' name, guilt written in his expression. "I do not claim infinite knowledge of revolutionary history or republican politics, but I do know those young men were fighting to give the people a voice where they have none, the people who must live by the law and yet have no say in how it's written. They wanted to help the very same people I did. I wanted to help individual people where I saw the chance, they wanted to change the fabric of the way France functions. These things go hand in hand. The smallest thing can make a difference, just  _trying_  makes a difference."

"But this society makes  _sense_ , there is order, there is hierarchy, there is…."

"You do not sound as if you believe your own argument," Valjean replies.

"I know," Javert says, meeting Valjean's eye again. "That's why I'm here."

* * *

Courfeyrac feels a bit as if the actual, physical world is shifting beneath him.

He's seen Combeferre irritated, frustrated, he's even seen him angry. But this anger, this utter fury at Javert is not something he's ever seen in his friend, and no matter the minutes that pass, it doesn't dissipate. He's a fraction more outwardly put together, but there are practically sparks shooting from his usually friendly eyes. A thick silence falls when they enter the house. Almost as if he doesn't see them, Enjolras leaves the entrance hall immediately, going toward the small sitting room a few feet away and sitting in the chair by the window.

Courfeyrac looks back and forth between Enjolras, sitting in the chair and staring out the window, his formerly calm, impassive expression replaced with blooming anxiety fanning out across his face, to Combeferre whose anger is locked up tight, yet visible clearly in his eyes. He feels torn between the two of them, shocked when Combeferre doesn't go to Enjolras' side and even more so when Enjolras doesn't call him over. After a moment, braver than all of them put together and quick on his feet, Gavroche goes over to Enjolras and Courfeyrac makes a decision, turning toward Combeferre, who has lightning in his eyes.

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac says, feeling Combeferre tense under his touch. "What is the matter?"

At this, for the first time in Courfeyrac's memory, Combeferre pulls away.

"What's the  _matter_?" Combeferre asks, frustration in his tone. "What's the  _matter_?"

"I'm not the one you're angry at," Courfeyrac says, resisting the urge to take this personally. This isn't about him. "I understand you're worried, that you're furious at Javert, but so are we all."

But even as the words leave his mouth, Courfeyrac starts understanding, remembers Combeferre knocking on his door, remembers the tears in his eyes, remembers his voice shaking as he explained what happened to Enjolras in the jail, as he told Courfeyrac about Enjolras finally breaking down. Combeferre and Courfeyrac both had seen Enjolras at low moments, but never something like that, and Courfeyrac saw the look in Combeferre's eyes that night, the pain at not being able to fix their best friend; no science, no inspirational words, could mend Enjolras that night. He was much improved since then, but the memories of those days in the very recent past, the fear of it returning that rested in Combeferre's eyes, was apparent.

"Javert is here!" Combeferre exclaims, finally losing his control as he did in the street. "This man who hurt Enjolras, who was willing to kill him."

"Combeferre," Feuilly says, gentle, patient, but firm. "Please keep your voice down, Enjolras…" he gestures toward their friend, who still sits in the chair, Gavroche silent as he sits on the arm, his smaller hand resting over Enjolras' larger one.

Combeferre does as asked because even in this state he listens to Feuilly, who is the most level-headed of them all right now, a cool head in a crisis.

"I…" Cosette begins, unsure what to do but desperately searching for something to calm the situation, clearly overcome with turbulent emotions herself. "Tea."

With that, she takes Marius' hand and guides him into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind them. She is no doubt worried over her father walking with the inspector who so wished to arrest him, and though he wishes he could join Marius in reassuring her, he has far too much on his hands at present.

"How can we trust Valjean now?" Combeferre says in a harsh whisper once Cosette is out of earshot. "He is allowing Javert into this house."

"Valjean has never led us astray," Courfeyrac says, taking both of Combeferre's hands and squeezing them. "He would not do so now. There is absolutely no reason to withdraw our trust of the man to whom we owe our lives."

"Javert is not a threat to us anymore," Grantaire adds. "He cannot turn Enjolras in: it would only mean his own doom. He is odd enough to seek his own doom, but if he were, I don't think he'd have come here."

"It doesn't mean he cannot still harm us," Combeferre protests, pulling his hands away. "He's not stable. He's not sane. He should not be around Enjolras, he should…" Combeferre trails off, unable to continue, his entire body shaking with rage.

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac says, for once refraining from touching his friend, sensing it would only make things worse. "It  _will_  be all right."

"You don't  _know_  that," Combeferre snaps, which is almost worse than raising his voice, and aside from a few irritable moments when he was tired and overworked, Courfeyrac doesn't recall Combeferre ever sounding this way toward him.

Courfeyrac makes eye contact with Feuilly, feeling lost. There's something reassuring in Feuilly's steady gaze, and he very carefully puts a hand on Combeferre's shoulder.

"How about you and I go outside for a moment?" Feuilly suggests. "Breathe. Take some air."

The tension in Combeferre's shoulders loosens ever so much under Feuilly's touch, and he nods, glancing back at Enjolras before meeting Courfeyrac's eyes once again, but he cannot quite hold the gaze. Courfeyrac and Grantaire watch them go, waiting until they are out of sight to speak.

"Just us, then," Grantaire says with a humourless smile.

"So it would seem," Courfeyrac replies. "I've never…" he stops mid-sentence. Feuilly is taking care of Combeferre, leaving him free to tend to the quiet, oddly calm Enjolras.

Grantaire, perceptive of Courfeyrac's distress, beckons Gavroche to come with him to the kitchen to help Marius and Cosette, who have disappeared since going to make tea. Enjolras barely watches them go, turning his head back toward Courfeyrac who pulls a chair up so that he's facing Enjolras directly. He takes Enjolras' hands in his, treating them as if they are made of parchment that might rip if treated too roughly. He hates seeing Enjolras so shaken, so vulnerable, the blood receded from his cheeks and leaving him so pale that Courfeyrac fears a strong wind might blow him away. This is not Enjolras as he normally is, but a frightening call back to the days after the entire debacle with Javert, almost entirely overcome by his grief over their friends, the loss of the barricade eating at him, the memories of Javert haunting him as the physical pain ripped through him.

It occurs to Courfeyrac just how heart-breaking it is to see the strongest people cracking around the edges.

"Are you all right?" Courfeyrac asks, surprised to see Enjolras giving him a small smile that fades as quickly as it came, stealing the sunshine from his face.

Enjolras hesitates.

"No." It's simple, but it surprises Courfeyrac perhaps even more than Combeferre's anger.

As soon as the single word leaves his mouth Enjolras starts shaking, all his forced calm from earlier fading away as he realizes he no longer has to hold it in. Even still, his hands clench, fingernails digging into the fabric of the chair.

"Are you afraid of Javert?" Courfeyrac asks, feeling it best to keep the questions simple and not overwhelm his friend.

"No," Enjolras says. "If he were going to hurt me, he would have tried. Valjean said…he said to trust him. That it would be all right. Just…the memories, they all came back like an attack on my mind. I know there isn't danger and yet I cannot convince myself entirely, like a fear of the past rather than the future."

"I think I understand," Courfeyrac says, keeping his reply brief in the hopes Enjolras will continue talking.

"Javert saw me as I am not sure any of you have even seen me," Enjolras says, and his voice contains a tremble he tries to swallow. "I was out of control, furious…"

"You have been furious before," Courfeyrac teases, trying to draw a smile.

He is successful, and Enjolras' lips twitch up just a bit.

"Yes," he admits. "But this…this was different, I…"

"You don't have to explain," Courfeyrac says, gentle with his words.

"Is Combeferre all right?" Enjolras asks, the far-away look in his eyes receding for a moment.

"He's…" Courfeyrac hesitates, unsure how to explain Combeferre's state. "He's angry."

"So I gathered. I think he lifted Javert off the ground."

"Though I've never seen him like this, I cannot say I am utterly surprised," Courfeyrac says, frowning in worry. "I think he's been holding it in ever since Javert arrested you, and it came out when we saw Javert again, which I don't think any of us were expecting. I've never seen him that upset. Even after the barricade. After everything."

At this, Enjolras suddenly reaches forward, embracing Courfeyrac hard, desperate, fingers clinging to the back of his friend's jacket. Like a reflex, Courfeyrac leans forward and does the same, one hand on the back of Enjolras' neck as his head comes to rest on Courfeyrac's shoulder.

"I'm angry," Enjolras says, voice muffled into the fabric of Courfeyrac's jacket. "I thought I was done being angry at him."

"I don't think you ever processed that you were," Courfeyrac says. "Javert let you go and you just…"

"I broke," Enjolras says, picking up his head. "It's all right for you to say it, Courfeyrac. I am not ashamed, I've found. Valjean was helpful with that, and Feuilly and Cosette. All of you. We went through so much, are still going through so much."

"You most of all," Courfeyrac says. "And if you're angry at Javert, well. I think that's fair."

"I saw something in him," Enjolras said. "Something desperate to understand. That's why I couldn't argue with Valjean earlier. I'm angry, but I still…I don't know."

At this, Enjolras starts shaking again despite his best efforts, and Courfeyrac embraces him tightly, determined to keep him together. Enjolras was willing to lead them through the fire, took the bullets to his leg and to his arm to keep them all from harm, pledged to be dead in the eyes of the world. So in turn, Courfeyrac is more than willing to lead his friend through the broken glass around them, careful, attentive, and there until it stops hurting so much. And after.

* * *

The moment they step outside, Feuilly hears Combeferre release a breath. They both sit, and Combeferre rests his head in his hands for a moment, fingers twisting through his hair.

"How can Valjean bring him here?" Combeferre asks, looking up again. "How on earth?"

"I suspect Valjean thinks it best to keep an eye on him rather than letting him roam in this state," Feuilly replies, watching Combeferre's expression. "He is clearly here for a reason."

"Yes but what's the reason?" Combeferre says. "He could harm Enjolras, he could…"

Feuilly reaches out a tentative hand, resting it on Combeferre's forearm.

"I don't think so," he replies, keeping his voice low and reassuring. "If he'd come for that, he would have fought back when you grabbed him by his collar."

At this Combeferre looks up, finally smiling a little sheepishly.

"I didn't know you were capable of such feats," Feuilly says, chuckling. "Did Bahorel teach you when we weren't looking?"

The familiar swoop of grief circles Feuilly's stomach at the mention of his friend's name, and as he shares a look with Combeferre he sees the same sentiment in the other man's eyes.

"I am poor in hand to hand combat," Combeferre answers. "Had he fought me, I would have lost. And he's much larger than me besides."

"Ah but you are the best shot among us," Feuilly says. "No contest."

Silence falls between them for a moment, and Feuilly waits, sensing that Combeferre will speak when he is ready, far more than he will if pressed. Feuilly cannot say he is fully comfortable with Javert's reappearance in their lives, but in his gut he trusts Valjean implicitly: a rare thing to develop as quickly as it has for a man he has known for only a few months even if it feels a lifetime has passed. Besides, if it's up to him and the others, no harm will come to Enjolras at Javert's hand.

"Watching Enjolras getting arrested and being powerless to stop it was bad enough," Combeferre finally says, his voice a whisper. "Then I thought seeing him nearly killed right in front of us was the worst I could see. But seeing him break down afterward…I'll never forget it. I can't. Even with all the memories of the barricade and those awful nightmares…that scream that came out of him…"

Combeferre shakes his head, pushing his glasses up and rubbing at his eyes again. Feuilly scoots his chair closer to Combeferre's, putting his hand on Combeferre's shoulder and leaving it there, allowing his friend a moment.

"It was the sound of all our grief in one moment," Feuilly says. "The loss of our friends, the defeat at the barricade, the abandonment of those we thought would join us, all of Enjolras' pain and trauma at what Javert put him through, the knowledge that to the world, he was dead, all wrapped in one moment."

Feuilly knows he won't ever forget it either, knows just how similar it sounded to his own cry when he realized his mother too, was dead, leaving him alone in the world. Different circumstances, but it was all still loss, still pain, still memories that would never quite fade like a watercolor left out into the sun too long but forever etched into their brains.

"I was afraid he would lose his hope," Combeferre says, looking up again. "That Javert had managed to push him over while he was cracked and shattered him."

"He didn't lose it," Feuilly reminds him. "He came out the other side. He's struggling, yes, with a great deal. But he is resilient and optimistic, it's his nature. He will get through it because he has us."

Combeferre nods, clasping Feuilly's arm. "I just don't want Javert to harm him. I don't him to harm any of you. I can't lose anything else. None of us can."

"He won't," Feuilly says again, remembering just how different Javert looked today, a far cry from the imposing, commanding inspector to whom he was accustomed, the man whose eyes looked like stone suddenly lost and full to bursting with an odd emotion he wasn't sure he could identify, but it was edged with guilt and a splash of intrigue when he looked at them rather than judgement. "You saw him today."

"You don't believe he's biding his time?"

"I think he's here searching for something only Valjean or Enjolras or the rest of us can help him with. And though he's clearly in a mental struggle, he appears more sane than when he was here in an official capacity. I don't think he's the sort to spontaneously murder."

"He put a knife to Enjolras' neck," Combeferre reminds him. "A gun to his head. He pointed it at us."

"Yes," Feuilly agrees. "But again, I think that was the worst of it, those moments. And he was also trying to convince himself he was doing his job protecting France from dangerous criminals, but he no longer has that job so he can't act in that capacity without becoming one of the criminals he so dislikes, even more than he already is for lying to his superior about Enjolras."

"You are ever insightful, as always," Combeferre says, a small smile at his lips. "And thank you. For everything." He breathes out, the first deep breath Feuilly's heard him take since they stumbled upon Javert.

"You are most welcome."

"We should head back in," Combeferre says, standing up. "I need to apologize to Courfeyrac for snapping at him. And to see about Enjolras."

Feuilly nods, following him, and they go back inside to see everyone returned to the sitting room where Enjolras is, gathered around him like a tight knot of protection. Feuilly sits next to Grantaire, exchanging a knowing glance with Courfeyrac, watching as Combeferre sits in between Enjolras and Courfeyrac, a smile and a hand grasp for the latter in a wordless apology that is accepted immediately, before turning to Enjolras. Enjolras reaches quietly for Combeferre's hand, squeezing it tightly before letting go, and for now, that is all that needs be said, because all is understood.

After a few minutes the door opens, and Valjean and Javert enter: Valjean says something inaudible to Javert and sends him to a room opposite, waiting until he is out of earshot before addressing them.

"I know you might be having a hard time trusting me right now," he says without preamble. "But in this situation, I felt it best to keep Javert under my watch instead of letting him roam the street and show up unexpectedly."

Cosette speaks up first, looking openly conflicted about this man she saved from jumping off a bridge, a man who has hurt her father, her mother, and her new friends, but a man who is clearly desperately searching for something.

"He is not here to harm us?" she asks, meeting Valjean's eyes. "You? Enjolras?"

"No," Valjean replies, and once again Feuilly trusts him, such is the reassuring timbre of his voice. "I promise all of you that. It is by no means permanent, and I will not let any of you be in danger." He glances over at Enjolras as if for permission, and their chief nods slowly in answer. Feuilly wonders at the curiosity mixed within the anxiety in Enjolras' eyes, wonders at just what was said between his friend and Javert during that terrible twenty-four hour period.

As they break apart a few minutes later for some rest after the tumultuous afternoon, they all take seats in various spots in Enjolras' room, mostly silent, but fully in solidarity with each other. Even through this bizarre, difficult event, Feuilly thinks, they are still a family.

* * *

Javert cannot sleep, but this is of little surprise. He knows Valjean too, is awake: he'd seen him making for the small office on the second floor, door staying open. He knows Javert isn't there to physically harm anyone, but it doesn't mean he trusts him, and Javert feels his grudging respect growing. It's better for Valjean to keep an eye on him in his own house than to allow him to roam free in this state, allowing a very clear risk to Enjolras' cover story, to the cover story of this entire house. It's quality logic, and Javert thinks that in some other life, in some other place, Valjean might have the mind of a police inspector, so great is his attention to meticulous detail.

_How_ , the familiar voice asks him.  _When he is so compassionate and you are so cold? You were good at your job, but you also showed no mercy._

He shakes his head, throwing the voice out and soaking in the irony of his presence in this house, the house of a man he trailed for twenty years, a man who pulled the code that dictated his life out from under his feet, the man that drove him to the bridge, whose daughter is the only reason he lives right now. The house of a man who hides the insurgent he chased, the insurgent with the fire in his eyes that Javert cannot erase from his mind even as it burns him. He wanders the lower floor, coming across one of the smaller rooms by the front door, the room where they'd all been sitting when he came to arrest Enjolras all these weeks ago. He steps inside, but after a moment, realizes he's not alone. Enjolras sits in a chair, injured leg propped up on an ottoman, toying with what looks like a small pocket knife, the moonlight from the window glinting off the metal edge. Javert starts ever so slightly, causing Enjolras to look up and do the same.

Enjolras makes eye contact with him: there is still a spark of fire in those excruciating blue eyes, but it's clouded over with a haze of exhaustion, a sadness so deep it digs a hole in the pit of Javert's stomach, leaving a hollow, aching feeling in the center. Because he knows he contributed to that look, and a regret he hates nearly overpowers him.

"Apologies," Javert finally says after a silence. "I didn't know anyone else was up. Aside from Valjean. And you had…a bit of a guard inside your room."

It was true. Javert had seen Combeferre and Courfeyrac enter Enjolras' room, the little gamin in tow.

"They were taking shifts watching me," Enjolras says, the fondness obvious in his tone. His desperation to protect them had been obvious to Javert on the day of the arrest, but this was softer, smaller, and Javert sees another layer of this complicated young man peeled back. "But I slipped past. I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to disturb them."

There's something odd in the boy's tone, Javert thinks. Something challenging and curious all at once. Almost as if he'd come down here on purpose.

"I can leave, if you wish."

"No need," Enjolras replies, and Javert notices his hand clenching over the knife, pulling it closer to his person.

"I'm not here to kill you, boy," Javert snaps. Rationally, he knows, Enjolras has all the reason to fear him, given their last encounter, the knife against his neck, the drugs coursing through his system, the dead prostitute lying in his arms. Yet he trusts Valjean, allows Javert in his room with him.

Enjolras looks back at him, then looks down again at his knife.

"My friend Bahorel gave me this years ago," he says, his voice sounding odd and far away, so soft Javert only hears it because he's in close range. "He taught me Savate, with Grantaire's help, then gave me this, for when I went into the more dangerous parts of Paris.

He holds it out, pointing at the intricate carvings on the handle. "My friend Provaire suggested a woodworker he knew to do this. Somehow I didn't lose it at the barricade."

Much to Javert's shock, he offers it to him for perusal.

"You would offer a knife to the man who tried to kill you with a similar weapon?" he asks, allowing the bewilderment to soften his voice.

A smirk that seems uncharacteristic graces Enjolras' face, and Javert feels goosebumps rise on his skin. Surely,  _surely_  he is not afraid of this treasonous, rebellious youth, no matter how intense he was at the barricade.

_You are afraid of what he represents_ , the voice says.  _You are afraid of what you have done to him._

"I thought you said you weren't here to kill me," Enjolras replies, the voice disappearing with a puff of smoke inside Javert's mind.

"I'm not."

"Then what should I fear?"

Javert doesn't respond, watching the shadows play across the wall as the wind blows through the trees outside, casting Enjolras' face in the moonlight, illuminating him entirely for a long moment, and Javert watches as he clenches his teeth, reaching down to massage at his leg. The moonlight casts his golden hair silver, a spark of righteous fury in his eyes, a fury that sets a strange fear in Javert's heart. After a minute, they are both cloaked in shadow once again.

"I suppose you never thought you'd end up a ghost among the living, did you?" Enjolras asks, but instead of the bitterness Javert expects to hear with that question, he hears curiosity, melancholy.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"We know what happened on the bridge," Enjolras answers, and Javert hears an empathy he is incredibly uncomfortable with in the boy's voice. "Cosette told us. "You had decided to die that night and then suddenly, you were still alive because someone stopped you. When you arrested me I was sure that was the end, that you would take me back to Paris for execution and then suddenly, a reprieve. Alive where I should have been dead."

"Did you want to die?" Javert scoffs. "Typical idealistic martyr who…"

"No," Enjolras says, cutting him off firmly. "I didn't want to die. Not in the least. But I was  _willing_  to die on the barricade. In the jail. For my country. To protect my friends. There's a difference. The irony is that I expected to die when you took me. But instead the world thinks me dead, yet I live."

"And might you enlighten me as to how our situations are similar?" Javert asks.

"The world knows you live," Enjolras says. "Yet you feel as though you have died. I feel very alive, and yet the world thinks me dead. We are both ghosts in our own way."

"You don't  _know_  me, boy," Javert says, a variation on what he'd said earlier to Valjean.

"I know you're here," Enjolras challenges him. "Of all the places you chose here in Avignon. Why?"

"I don't know!" Javert says, voice rising.

It's a lie, and it tastes virulent on his tongue.

"Yes you do," Enjolras says, not backing down. "You're not here for revenge or you would have taken it already. Why are you  _here_?"

"I don't owe you answers!" Javert shouts, knowing this will summon Valjean, knowing it could very well jeopardize the answers he's looking for, his journey all the way here.

A muted version of the look in his eyes from that night in the jail rests in Enjolras' eyes, and when his hands begin shaking, Javert knows he feels that same anger overcoming him, can tell that it frightens him to feel so furious with one man. He suspects Enjolras is no stranger to feeling furious, but his fury is reserved for injustice, for the system Javert so enforced, for the monarchy. But not for one man.

"I have a right to know why the man who put a gun to my head, who threatened my friends, who drugged me, who put a knife to my throat, is here!" Enjolras says, his own voice rising. "That the man who would have been pleased to jail Valjean is here? The man who didn't care a bit for the fate of Cosette's mother!"

"You do not trust Valjean?" Javert questions, mocking in his tone because he doesn't want to think about the fact that _he_  did this,  _he_  put heaped further trauma upon a young man who had already experienced a great deal.

Why does he  _care_ , he doesn't want to  _care_.

For a flash of a moment, he sees Fantine in front of him, long blonde hair dirty and in knots from being out all night, begging him to not arrest her.

"Of course I do," Enjolras says, one first clenching as he stands, leaning on his cane. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Do you not believe in forgiveness of one's enemies?" Javert asks, evading again. "That people can change? Seems to go against the revolution you want so desperately to enact, against all the speeches given and pamphlets handed out. All of that involved change, did it not?"

"You want to change?" Enjolras asks. "Do you seek some sort of answers here?"

"From Valjean, not from you," Javert spits. Another half-truth. He wants answers from Valjean, but he wants them from Enjolras too.

"You are a liar," Enjolras says, voice hard but shaking with anxiety. Yet an aura of something Javert can't quite put his finger on crackles tangibly around him. "You came down here and found me, you didn't leave."

"I do not want answers from an insurgent who would burn down France with his revolution," Javert says, voice low with anger.

But it's yet another lie.

Enjolras is about to respond when there are footsteps approaching them, Valjean's form appearing in the doorway.

"What is going on?" he asks, making instantly for Enjolras, whose is shaking with a downpour of emotion.

"He won't explain why he's  _here_ ," Enjolras says, voice going down several octaves.

"Enjolras," Valjean says, and Javert notes the paternal sound of his tone, watches as the older man puts a steadying arm around Enjolras' waist to keep him from falling. He cannot hide his surprise: the young man he'd seen on the barricade, the young man he'd seen in the jail was a fierce, intense priest of the revolution, yet here was a young man who allowed a fatherly gesture from a man he met mere months ago.

For a moment Enjolras struggles against him. "Why is he  _here_?"

"You're going to undo all the good work you've done with Combeferre and Grantaire," Valjean warns, still gentle, Javert watching with a strange sort of awe. "It's not worth it."

Enjolras pulls one more time and Valjean holds tighter, though not painfully. After a moment Enjolras goes limp, allowing Valjean to help him sit back in the chair. Javert fully expects Valjean to order his immediate departure, expects him to shout, expects him to bodily remove him from the premises himself. But he does none of these things. Instead he looks up at Javert, disappointment written in every crevice, but expectation gleaming in his eyes.

Valjean looks about to speak, but it's Enjolras' voice he hears instead, the foundation beneath it cracking.

"I was  _done_  being angry with you."

The boy looks up again, and Javert notices that there are tears leaking from his eyes that Enjolras doesn't even notice. He gets up as suddenly as he sat down, but Valjean catches his arm.

"Please," Enjolras says, sounding older than his twenty-six years and the guilt drops like a stone in Javert's stomach once more. "I'd just like to be alone."

"I could get Combeferre or…"

"No," Enjolras says his frustrated tone fading into kindness for Valjean. "I just…I want to be alone for a few minutes. I'll be out in the garden."

Valjean releases Enjolras' arm, his eyes following him until he's out the nearby door at the front of the house, out into the darkness. Valjean turns back to Javert, something flashing in his eyes.

"I thought you said you weren't here to harm anyone, Javert."

"There's not a mark on the boy," Javert argues, offended when he knows he has no right to be. "I told you. I'm not interested in arresting anyone. I'm no longer an inspector, if you'll recall. I didn't harm anyone."

"Yes," Valjean says with a heavy tone. "You did."

 


	38. We're All Right

Enjolras finally takes a deep breath the moment he opens the door to the garden, the cool evening air a rush of life and calm into his chest. He hadn’t even realized the anxiety and panic flaring up until the moment he rose from the chair to exit the drawing room. He’d kept it bottled up, trying desperately to keep it from Javert, to keep it from Valjean, from himself. He marvels for a moment at just how quiet it is here in the night. Just a little under two miles from Avignon, he cannot hear the sounds of the city, not as he had from his rooms in Paris. Even in the middle of the night there were sounds: laughter, talking, carts or fiacres rolling by. For the first time since leaving it, and in an admittedly odd moment, Enjolras’ heart aches for Paris, for the rush of life around him, the thrum of revolution thrumming just beneath the surface of the streets, in past, present, and future.

He closes his eyes, hearing Combeferre’s voice in his head, the words he’d said a few nights ago after Enjolras awoke from a nightmare of the barricade, trying with every ounce of himself to listen.

_You must not fault yourself if you experience another attack of nerves. We have all been through trauma, Enjolras. And you through even more. You are making progress, I promise it._

He releases a shaky breath, hands grasping the railing surrounding the plants and flowers to discourage any thievery. He thought he was done with this, with this anger and this anxiety about Javert. But then, he never really expected him to return, either. Certainly never expected him to end up in this house, in the next room, mere feet away from him. There had been a moment in the jail when he thought perhaps Javert might be searching for something, that there was a spark of some kind of change, but it had been such a fleeting moment and then Javert had nearly killed him and let him go in a space of mere minutes.

_Trust Valjean_ , he tells himself. _Trust him._

An unfamiliar doubt creeps in just as he sees Combeferre’s furious face in his mind’s eye. He knows Combeferre better than anyone, and he’s never seen that sort of anger in his friend’s expression, never seen it pumping through his veins so hot he was liable to burst into flames. That was more Bahorel’s trait, or Courfeyrac’s, sometimes even his own or even on rare occasions, Feuilly’s. But not Combeferre. Not like that.

He hears the door open, turning to see Valjean filling the frame and looking apologetic.

“May I?” he asks, not stepping out into the garden without Enjolras’s permission, respecting his boundaries and the obvious anxiety.

“Of course,” Enjolras replies, gesturing him forward.

Valjean complies, letting the door close with little noise behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Valjean begins.

“Sorry?” Enjolras asks. “Whatever for?”

“I allowed Javert into this house.”

“Do you regret doing so?” Enjolras asks, knowing it sounds like a challenge, knowing the darkest doubts he feels spill forth in his voice.

“Not entirely, no,” Valjean says. “I believe there is good to come of it. For him. Possibly for you and I. For all of us. Some healing.”

“Then do not apologize,” Enjolras says with a small smile. He pushes the doubting voices to the back of his head where he cannot hear them. “I trust you.”

“Javert has hurt you,” Valjean says, stepping a bit closer. “Immensely. And he prodded those wounds just now.”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers. “But I imagine my wounds, emotional and physical, will be prodded throughout my life. I must learn how to handle it.”

“Yes,” Valjean says with an amused shake of his head. “But that is rather different than allowing the man who tried to kill you into this house.”

“But you do not believe he will try to kill me again?” Enjolras asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Valjean says, firm. “But that does not mean I will allow him to hurt you in this way, either.”

Enjolras pauses, feeling a rush of affection for this man he’s only known a short while but who has transformed all their lives. Saved them.

“As you said before, you cannot always protect me, and wouldn’t do me that disservice.”

He remembers that moment even if he doesn’t want to, remembers tears bluring his vision, pain ripping through every ounce of him, face buried in Valjean’s jacket after Javert released him from his grip.

“I did,” Valjean says. “But this is not one of those instances. Javert had no right to…”

He stops at the sound of footsteps, and both turn, seeing Javert at the screen door, looking as chastised as Enjolras suspects he ever has.

“Might I…” he stops, sounding very much as if he’s trying increasingly hard to not sound irritated and defensive. “Have a moment, Enjolras?”

It’s one of the few times he’s actually said Enjolras’ name, and the only time he’s ever said it with any kind of good will. He almost sounds apologetic, or as apologetic as Javert is capable of sounding. Valjean looks at Enjolras in silent question as to whether or not he is to stay.

“I’m all right,” Enjolras says sincere. “But I heard footsteps upstairs, could you perhaps see who is awake and reassure them that I’m fine? They’ll worry.”

Valjean nods, clasping Enjolras’ shoulder for a moment before passing through the doorway and shooting him a look that says under no circumstance is there to be a repeat of the events of a short while ago. After it’s clear Valjean has headed upstairs, it’s Javert who speaks first.

“You care about your friends a great deal,” he says, gruff but phrasing it almost as a question, curiosity in his tone.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, tone flat, but not entirely unkind.

It’s one word, but for some reason it triggers a flood of memories. He remembers standing by the fire, thinking of his friends’ best traits, wondering what Grantaire was up to at the Barriere du Maine. Somehow that seems a lifetime ago. He remembers the fire lighting in the pit of his stomach, warming up to his heart and filling him with certainty, with fight, with love.

“I have a question for you,” Javert continues.

“And yet you would not answer mine.”

“You saw something in me,” Javert continues, somehow knowing Enjolras was not really fighting him. “That night in the jail, with the prostitute.”

“Isabelle,” Enjolras insists.

“Yes,” Javert says. “Isabelle.”

As Enjolras hears it, a smoky memory forms in Javert’s eyes, haunting him, and it’s clear he’s thinking not just of Isabelle but of another young woman from years ago that shares Cosette’s features.

“What did you see?” Javert asks, voice cracking an inch.

“Regret,” Enjolras says. “A flicker of it.”

“What else?” Javert presses. “It wasn’t just that.”

Enjolras sighs, unsure how to proceed, unsure how to form his thoughts into words.

“I saw potential…” he stops seeing Javert look as if he is about to speak up in argument, but closes his mouth, thinking better of it, trying to listen.

“Potential to be different,” Enjolras continues. “You clung so hard to what you believed in and I saw you doubting it, and I thought…”

“That you could bring me over to your side?” To Enjolras’ surprise, the words aren’t mocking.

“Perhaps,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. “But then you tried to kill me. Then you let me go. I’m still unsure as to why you did. I was confused as to how you could do both in a matter of minutes. Suddenly, you were risking your entire career to let me go.”

He looks up at Javert, who is looking at him with an unreadable expression fixed on his face that is rapidly cracking around the edges. Javert clearly cannot explain himself just yet, so Enjolras speaks again, grasping onto a shred of something he suspected.

“Isabelle,” he says, slow, easy. “She reminded you of Cosette’s mother.” He doesn’t say the name for worry it will provoke Javert and although normally he might well be able to win in a hand to hand combat against even a man who is taller and larger than him, with his injuries, he cannot. He does not think it will come to that, but he has enough self-preservation to not trust this man completely.

Javert stares at him, eyes narrowing for a moment before nodding. He doesn’t say Fantine’s name and neither does Enjolras, because he senses that if he does it will shatter the very air around them.

“That is why you reacted so fiercely,” Enjolras continues, leading the conversation and unsure why he doesn’t just storm away like any sane person who is in the same space with someone who tried to kill them. But something holds him here, something he cannot let go of. “Because I reminded you of Valjean and Isabelle reminded you of Fa…of Cosette’s mother.”

“Yes,” Javert says, finally looking away, his gaze not going up to the stars, but to the ground, as if he no longer trusts them. “The two of you are very different and yet so similar in a way I cannot quite name.”

Silence falls between them for a moment and Enjolras follows Javert’s eyes as they lift off the ground and make their way to the aforementioned stars. His gazes at them for a moment as if he looks for answers within their glow and then looks back down again, irritated that they provided nothing.

“Your friend…”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras interrupts, firm that Javert should name him.

“Yes,” Javert responds. “Combeferre. He was…quite angry with me. Is he usually like that?”

It feels increasingly odd to exchange the semblance of normal words with Javert, but Enjolras presses forward, wondering how he got here, standing out in the garden of an Avignon country home at midnight, speaking to the police officer who tried to kill him.

“No, not at all,” Enjolras answers. He turns, looking Javert in the face. “But you tried to kill me. I, perhaps, have forgiven you. Or at least am on my way there. Not forgotten, but forgiven. He hasn’t, and he doesn’t have to.” He is firm with those words. He will not tell his friends how to feel about the situation, nor will he dictate their willingness to forgive. That is their decision, and he knows all too well how difficult it would be for him to forgive someone for hurting his friends in the way Javert hurt him.

Something flashes in Javert’s eyes, but again, he suppresses it, and Enjolras wonders not for the first time what exactly Valjean said to Javert on their walk back from Avignon.

“I am….it is…” Javert tries. “I did not intend to upset you earlier.” It is an attempt at an apology, and it rings strangely coming from the man in front of him.

“I am not sure if that’s true,” Enjolras shoots back. “But I would be less so if you would tell me why you’re _here._ ” He stresses the last word, feeling the air charge between them again.

Javert’s hand clenches on the railing, his knuckles popping white as if everything in him is screaming to keep silent.

“If you are only here to talk with Valjean then why are you standing here, talking to me?”

“Enjolras…” Javert says, a warning Enjolras doesn’t heed.

“ _Why_?” Enjolras insists. He is not a child, and does not care for the reprimanding tone in Javert’s voice.

There is a moment of tension so tangible Enjolras can feel it wrapping around them both until it snaps, and Javert’s words come out like a crack of a whip.

“Because I almost jumped off a bridge!” he whispers, the words ringing with the intensity of a shout. “I almost killed myself because I couldn’t reconcile that Valjean was both a convict _and_ a good man.” The words _good man_ roll off his tongue as if they are poison.

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Enjolras insists. “You still won’t say why you seem so intent on talking to me. Why you were so intent on catching me, on almost killing me.”

Javert stares at him, clearly hating him for pressing, opening his mouth and closing it again. Enjolras glares at him, unwilling to wait any longer, taking the first step toward the door. But finally, Javert’s voice stops him.

“First it was guilt,” he says, refusing to look at Enjolras even as the younger man’s back is turned to him. “Guilt I hated feeling, that I was unused to feeling about anyone except Valjean. Guilt at those bodies on the barricade, guilt at the streets running with blood, guilt that I worked with the system that put it there. I wanted to say they deserved it for their actions, I wanted….then the next day there were all those bodies, men younger than I was when I first became a policeman. It only compounded my confusion about Valjean because if I was wrong…but I couldn’t be wrong…” he trails off, and Enjolras senses him descending back into madness, back into that laughter that seemed it would disintegrate him into dust.

“And then?” Enjolras urges, finally turning around and drawing Javert back into the conversation.

“Mercy,” Javert says, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, and even now it sounds distasteful to him. “I felt it. And it terrified me.”

“That’s why you let Valjean go in the sewers with Marius,” Enjolras says, all of Javert’s actions, though not excused, abruptly making sense.

“Yes,” Javert says, nodding. “Little did I know he was hiding the lot of you behind him. But all of it built up inside me and I let them go. I couldn’t forgive myself for it, afterwards.”

“But you couldn’t have forgiven if you brought them in, either,” Enjolras says, soft. “Hence the bridge. Then you were thwarted, and you thought coming after me would set the world right again.”

“Yes,” Javert repeats, releasing a breath. “You were a symbol of what frightened me. And even if I couldn’t capture Valjean, if I couldn’t make myself do so, then perhaps I could do it with you.”

“That’s a strict code to live by, if the only answer results in your almost suicide.”

Javert huffs, annoyed.

“You are so different?” he asks, “Going off on a barricade to die?”

“I didn’t _want_ to die,” Enjolras emphasizes. “I was _willing_ to. I told you. It’s different. When I saw we were the only barricade left I accepted that death was inevitable. Or at least it would have been, if not for Valjean.”

“You didn’t want the glory of martyrdom?” Javert asks, sounding genuinely curious, attempting to mask it under a growl.

“No,” Enjolras replies, firm. “I just wanted our cause to progress forward. I wanted people to remember that, not me. Even if it cost me my life.”

“You believe so strongly,” Javert says, turning away and looking at the stars once more, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re going against society, against your station and your class. It would have been easier simply to just follow the path set out for you.”

Enjolras hesitates before speaking, waiting to see if Javert will look at him, waiting to see if he will realize the significance of his words. He doesn’t, but once Enjolras voices his thoughts, the older man spins around, meeting Enjolras squarely in the eye, looking dangerous.

“Are we so different in that?” Enjolras holds his ground, his nerves kicking in, but this time he manages to hold them at bay, at least for now, remembering to breathe, remembering that this man would face repercussions for physically harming him.

“What _exactly_ do you mean?” Javert asks in a harsh whisper. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Valjean told me you took a path quite different from your parents,” Enjolras says, trying to phrase it diplomatically. He hears the slightest movement from the other side of the wall, watching out of the corner of his eye as Valjean peaks through the window to make sure all is well. It does not appear as if Javert notices. “Wouldn’t it have been easier for you to just stay where you were?”

Javert doesn’t reply immediately, clearly unwilling to speak about his parents or his past, looking as if he perhaps desires nothing more than to slap Enjolras again. Unconsciously, Enjolras reaches up to his cheek, where the bruise from Javert’s ring has faded to what would be an unnoticeable yellow if not for the paleness of Enjolras’ skin.

“I nearly killed you,” Javert finally says, not answering the question but abruptly sounding much as he had for those few moments in the cell when he was cleaning Enjolras’ face, a whisper, perhaps of the innocent child he’d been a lifetime ago, a growing part of him horrified at what he’d done, the anger vanished.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“And you can forgive me for that? For becoming as bad…worse than the people I threw in jail?”

“Yes,” Enjolras repeats. “It does not excuse the action, but despite everything, you thought you were doing your job, you thought you were doing what was right, and part of me knew that then, even though I vehemently disagreed. The way things work in France…we allow a system so detrimental that it creates thought processes like yours, processes that believe in this harmful hierarchy even when you might have been born at the bottom and never benefitted. It’s what keeps the power structure in place, isn’t it? Making people believe that. And when that process is proved wrong and you’ve believed it so strongly, well…I can see why something like what happened to you might result.”

“You do not believe in personal responsibility?” Javert questions.

“I do,” Enjolras answers. “I believe people make choices based on the circumstances they’re given, and two people with the same ones can make completely different choices. I didn’t excuse what you did, I just think I understand why you did it.”

Javert stares at him for a moment, looking as if he wishes he could pull the understanding, the mercy, the belief out of Enjolras’ blood and into his own.

“Valjean and I had similar paths and we went different ways,” Javert says. “He believes the difference is that he had someone step in and change him. But I suppose the difference is that his experience taught him to be angry at the system in place, and mine taught me to be angry at the people who didn’t fit inside it, who disobeyed or fought against it, and those were the very people Valjean was trying to help. I suppose what drew my ire was that I didn’t understand him.” He looks up, meeting Enjolras’ eyes for a moment. “And I didn’t understand you. You, who I saw sending men away from the barricade. You, who didn’t kill me instantly when you realized I was a spy. Offered me water.”

Enjolras nods, staying silent so that Javert might speak more.

“Valjean was a convict and somehow, a good man, even if I didn’t and still don’t want to admit that,” Javert continues. “And you, you could have lived your life comfortably in wealth, yet you chose to turn against the system that gave those things to you. It confused me, and it made me angry.”

“Far too many people are convinced that they do not deserve rights and a decent life because of the position into which they were born,” Enjolras answers, feeling his old passion reverberating through his voice, and hearing it warms him, wakens something in his soul that’s been sleeping through his grief and his pain and his trauma. “The Revolution started to change that. People grew tired of being mistreated and living in poverty.”

“I’ve lived by a code that considered everything black and white, right and wrong, and the law dictated those things. The law has been my God rather than any spiritual deity and the moment I realized the law could be wrong…” he trails off, turning away from Enjolras again.

Enjolras pauses, waiting a moment before clarity strikes him.

“You came here to understand,” he says. “You think that Valjean and I might be your Bishop Myriel, so to speak.”

“Yes,” Javert says, still not looking at him, clearly unhappy he feels this way.

“Whatever you’ve done in the past, I think that’s courageous of you,” Enjolras says, watching as Javert turns, wide-eyed for a moment before scowling.

“Do not condescend to me, boy,” he says, defense mechanisms clicking back into gear.

“I’m not,” Enjolras says, raising his hands in a gesture of good will. “Have I done such the entire time we’ve been out here?”

“No,” Javert admits, calming once more.

There is an odd sort of fear in Javert’s expression, but Enjolras doesn’t really have time to contemplate it: at that moment his leg twitches, and he holds tight to his cane, other hand flying out to grab the wall to prevent himself from falling. He bites his lip, a wave of pain coursing through. He hasn’t felt one like this in a few days, and knows it’s because he’s stood for far too long. He meets Javert’s eyes, and there is a flash of the thing the inspector himself has despised for so long.

Mercy.

Seemingly without even considering it, the older man reaches out to steady Enjolras in the same moment as Enjolras’ free hand reaches for the wall, leaving them in the awkward position of Enjolras holding onto the wall, Javert’s hand laying on his arm. He pulls it away quickly, but the moment does certainly not go unnoticed

“I should go inside,” Enjolras says. “I’m afraid I’ve pushed myself too far for tonight.”

Javert nods, and though he doesn’t offer to help, he does hold the door open for Enjolras as they go inside, and Enjolras cannot help but think that compared to a few weeks ago, when Javert was shattered and bent on killing him, this is miraculous progress. Valjean waits for them silently in the drawing room, sitting with a newspaper and a cup of tea. He looks up with a smile on his face, with only infuriates Javert, who goes and sits across from his former nemesis nonetheless.

“Do you need help, Enjolras?” Valjean asks, but just as he does, Courfeyrac and Cosette appear from the kitchen bearing tea, no doubt up conspiring and perhaps trying to listen to Javert and Enjolras’ conversation.

Enjolras is about to respond that he’s fine, but when his friends see his bad leg shaking, they stand on either side of him to lend support, but letting him walk on his own.

“You’d best be thankful,” Courfeyrac whispers playfully into his ear. “Everyone’s awake upstairs and in exchange for him not coming down to possibly murder Javert, I’ve kept our normally peaceful Combeferre upstairs, promising him I’d keep an eye on things.”

Enjolras chuckles, feeling his muscles relax, a far cry from his state earlier today when they’d first come across Javert. He gives the pair of older men once last glance before going upstairs to his friends.

* * *

“So,” Javert says, wishing Valjean would wipe that infuriating smile off his face. “Are you running a home for hiding insurgents from the law now? Is that to become your new project?”

“Perhaps,” Valjean says, a twinkle in his eye that both angers Javert and makes him feel strangely calm. “What do you say to a game of chess?”

“What?” Javert snaps.

“Chess,” Valjean says, matter of fact. “Would you like to play chess?”

Javert is taken aback, raising his eyebrows at the man in front of him.

“You want to play chess with a man who would have gladly sent you back to the galleys, who hunted you across the years, who nearly killed the boy you seem to see as almost a son?”

“Well there is no need to fear you arresting me, given that you are no longer an inspector,” Valjean replies, sounding as if they are discussing what to have for the evening meal. “And unless you are feeling particularly murderous this evening then I am not sure what the trouble is.”

“I am _not_ feeling murderous, Javert protests.

“Excellent then,” Valjean says, pulling the board out from under the table and beginning set up.

Javert watches him, disgruntled, recalling the simple but profound image of Cosette and the one Javert believes is called Courfeyrac assisting Enjolras up the stairs, watching the pain and the stress melt away from the young man’s face as his friends came to his side. Javert had no memory of anyone ever making him feel that way. He has a few fleeting memories of his mother holding him as a child, remembers her soft voice reassuring him that his father would be back, but he’d known it was a lie: his father had gone to the galleys when he was barely four, and he doubted he’d ever see the man again. They’d lived in a house with other families like their own shoved inside, not unlike the wretched Thenardiers, his mother making money from telling fortunes, Javert himself doing odd jobs for scraps and spare change. His mother was sent back to the galleys for a year on penalty of thievery when he was ten, and after that he never saw her again. But he swore he would be better than his parents. His mother should have done better than getting thrown into the galleys for stealing, she should have found another way, she….

He cuts the thought process off, unable to think of the parents he hadn’t truly considered in years.  

 All he remembers as a child is the cold hand of the world shoving him out and making him hate the place from whence he came. He had always been alone, partly by circumstance, but partly, he realizes, by choice. Isolation was his routine, and he is unsure if he can break it. Is he searching for friends? For mere companionship? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that without his job the life he knows is gone, all he knows is that he vacated his apartment in Paris and must now live on the savings and inspector’s small pension, and start anew.

“You and Enjolras made progress, then?” Valjean asks.

“As if you weren’t listening at the door,” Javert mumbles.

“I was nearby, but I wasn’t listening,” Valjean clarifies. “You spoke for a long while.”

“We had a lot to discuss,” Javert says.

Valjean surveys him for a moment, curious.

“A part of you fears him.”

“A part of me fears _all_ of this, Valjean,” Javert answers.

In truth, it is one of the most honest things he’s ever said.

“Your daughter has married the Pontmercy boy then?” Javert asks, trying to pull the conversation away from himself and watching Valjean set up the pieces across the board.

“Am I to take that as your congratulations?” Valjean asks.

Javert scoffs, but doesn’t reply.

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”

Javert is about to ask Valjean why on earth he is being so damn chipper, but swallows the urge back down.

“So these boys,” Javert begins, tone stiff. “What sort are they?”

“What sort?” Valjean questions, quirking an eyebrow.

“You know, what are they like, or…” Javert makes an unsure gesture with his hand. “I tire of digging into my psychological past, Valjean, so I’m trying to make conversation. Just answer.”

“Just so you are aware,” Valjean says, still smiling. “Demanding people answer is not a way to have a conversation.”

“Fine,” Javert says, aware that he sounds like a petulant child.

Valjean looks at the pieces, contemplating his first move. “So you would like to hear about the young men currently sitting upstairs?”

“And Cosette,” Javert adds hastily, the image of the young woman with such compassion in her eyes bleeding together with the picture of her mother on her knees before him, begging for mercy.

At the mention of Cosette, Valjean’s entire face lights up, not dissimilar to Enjolras’ expression when he saw his friends approach.

“She is the greatest gift of my life,” he says, eyes flitting upstairs toward where Cosette must be, talking with the boys.

“You would say something so sentimental,” Javert says, watching as Valjean makes his move and contemplating his own, feeling an odd stab of unexpected jealousy at what Valjean has and what he never realized he was missing.

“It’s true,” Valjean answers. “She is intelligent, kind, open-minded.”

“She knows of your past then?”

Valjean frowns slightly. “Yes. Now she does.”

Javert quelches the urge to prod, to question when exactly Valjean explained his past to his adoptive daughter. But he supposes it doesn’t matter, as the pair appears as close as ever. “She did not turn you away for your convict past? She did not condemn you?”

“No,” Valjean says, abruptly grave as Javert moves his piece forward on the board. “And when she was not ashamed of me, it began the process of learning that perhaps I should not be ashamed of myself, either.” He looks pointedly at Javert but does not continue.

“So these boys,” Javert asks. “They are all wealthy students, aside from the gamin?”

“Gavroche,” Valjean specifies, firm. “And no, not all of them. Enjolras and Courfeyrac come from wealthy families, as does Marius. Combeferre’s parents are merchants whose business started doing very well shortly after he was born. Grantaire is from a similar background. All students, most finished their studies shortly before the barricades fell, though Combeferre is set to take his physicians’ final exam in a month or two.” Valjean stops, meeting Javert’s eyes for a moment as if something has just come together in his mind.

“And the other boy?” Javert asks, restless.

“Feuilly,” Valjean replies. “He was a working man whose parents died when he was a child. A fan-maker. One of the most well-read people of any age I’ve ever come across. I think he’s read nearly all the books on history or politics in M. Gillenormand’s library. He’s moved onto novels recently, some that their friend Jean Prouvaire recommended to him. Frankenstein, I believe? All I know is Cosette was an enthusiastic reader before now she is even more so.”

Javert’s heart beats a bit quicker in his chest, and he is having a difficult time focusing on the game in front of him, but he moves his piece anyway.

“How did he fall in with a group of wealthy and middle-class students?” Javert questions, knowing now why Valjean paused before mentioning Feuilly.

“A passion for a shared cause is powerful motivator,” Valjean says. “A powerful foundation for friendship and discovered families made of something stronger than blood.”

_His background is not so dissimilar from yours_ , are the words Valjean doesn’t need to say.

Javert doesn’t answer because his thoughts spin too rapidly, his brain refusing to click into place and make the words come out. Valjean studies him for a moment, that familiar half-smile slipping onto his face again.

“Oh for heaven’s sake move your damn piece Valjean,” Javert says.

Valjean smiles fully now, and does so.

“There may be hope for you yet, Javert,” he says. “Checkmate.”

* * *

Combeferre sits straight up when he hears Courfeyrac and Cosette enter with Enjolras in tow.

“Did he hurt you?” Combeferre asks in an instant, refraining from assisting as Courfeyrac and Cosette help Enjolras down onto his bed so that he might stretch his leg out.

“No,” Enjolras says, smiling tiredly at him. “Just stood for too long. It’s all fine.”

“Besides,” Grantaire says from his perch on the arm of Feuilly’s chair. “Even though Valjean is certainly not a shouter, we’d have heard it if Javert touched Enjolras.”

“That’s true,” Cosette says, nodding. “I’ve heard Papa shout only a handful of times in my life, but if Javert had harmed Enjolras, we would have known.”

Enjolras is too exhausted to take note of Combeferre’s still clenched hands, but Feuilly does, and from his place in the chair beside him, squeezes one hand lightly until Combeferre releases his fingers from their trap.

_Why on earth did you go down there alone?_ Combeferre wants to ask. _What on earth were you thinking?_ He wants to reprimand Enjolras. He stops himself: what he sees as potentially reckless seems a part of the healing process to Enjolras. It wasn’t, he tells himself on further introspection, some kind of fatalistic play on Enjolras’ part to go down after the man who weeks previously put a knife to his neck, it was a quest for answers.

“So did the two of you just have a conversation? Feuilly asks before Combeferre can get the words out.

“We heard shouting, initially?” Courfeyrac adds. “Which is what woke us up.”

“We got into a bit of an argument at first,” Enjolras explains, reaching down to massage his leg.

Combeferre feels the anger from hours earlier pop at his temples, but breathes in deep and calms himself.

“He didn’t want to tell me why he was here,” Enjolras continues, looking over at Combeferre again as if to reassure him that he is all right. “Valjean stepped in, I walked out. And then Javert…apologized.” He sounds an odd mixture of dumbfounded and validated all at once.

“The inspector apologized?” Grantaire asks. “That’s certainly not what I would have expected.”

“Certainly not,” Marius echoes, reaching over absentmindedly for Cosette’s hand.

“He apologized for arguing with you?” Gavroche asks, perched as ever at the foot of the bed. “Or apologized for, you know, trying to slice open your throat?”

“Gavroche,” Cosette chides.

“What?” he asks. “It’s what happened. Adults try to pretty everything up with words.”

That, Combeferre considers, is true.

“Both, in a manner of speaking,” Enjolras answers. “He apologized as best as he was able to, I think.”

“Are you all right” Combeferre asks, not referring to Enjolras’ physical state, and from the way Enjolras looks back at him, their silent communication ever in play, he knows his friends takes his meaning.

“I think so,” Enjolras says, honest. “I wasn’t…but now I am. For the most part.”

“Did he specify why he was here?” Combeferre presses, still feeling unsure, but also as if they are on the precipice of something unspoken, the next stage of this journey of theirs. This journey of change and grief and rebirth come together all at once.

“He seeks answers,” Enjolras says, looking around at all of them. “He questions, essentially, everything he has ever believed or stood for. Through his experiences with Valjean, with us. I do not know what he plans to do, and I am not entirely sure where we stand. I am not even entirely sure I have forgiven him, but I am perhaps, on my way there. But I do know he is no longer a threat.” He meets Combeferre’s eyes when he speaks again. “I am not under any circumstance asking any of to interact with him, or to forgive him. That is not my place, and I know that often it is easier to forgive things done to yourself than it is things done to people you love. I only see a chance here to possibly help him. I saw a flicker of it that day in the jail cell and I…I feel a need to follow through on it. I am not sure what will come of it, but like Valjean, I feel I must at least speak with him if he so wishes.”

It is quiet for a moment as the thoughts stir in everyone’s minds, until Gavroche speaks up.

“So we want to recruit him to the cause?”

At this, everyone bursts out laughing, and Combeferre feels the tension flood out of him, leaving his muscles weak.

“I’m not sure about that, Gavroche,” Enjolras says with a tired chuckle. “But I’ll let you try if you like.”

“It’s the least he can do,” Gavroche says, puffing up his chest in a fairly accurate impression of the former inspector. “I had a few run-ins with him in Paris. Not that he could ever catch me.”

Everyone laughs again, and as it is nearly two in the morning after a few more minutes and assurance that Enjolras is all right, everyone save Combeferre departs for bed. Enjolras slides under the covers with only minimal fussing on Combeferre’s part, not commenting on the fact that Combeferre is still sitting in his customary chair.

“You were angry this afternoon,” Enjolras says. “We have not really had a moment alone to speak about it. Are _you_ all right?”

“I wasn’t,” Combeferre says, echoing Enjolras’ words from a few moments ago. “But I believe I am now. I simply…I lost my senses when I saw him, like I was re-living everything he’d done to you in perfect color. I don’t think I ever quite made the time to handle just how much it affected me.”

“My friend,” Enjolras says, yawning. “That is something I completely understand.”

Combeferre smiles, placing his hand over Enjolras’ for a moment.

“Are you planning on vacating that chair anytime soon?” Enjolras asks.

“Not a chance.”

Enjolras shakes his head in mock exasperation, and after a few more minutes of sleep drenched conversation, Enjolras falls asleep as Combeferre watches, a distinct feeling of safety overcoming him. For the first time in weeks Combeferre feels the sense of dread that has been his near constant companion, start fading away. Things would be hard, he knew. Enjolras was still a fugitive thought dead, they still grieved their friends, they still had to start an entirely new life here, emerging from the trauma they’d all experienced and still had to sort through.:: But for the first time, a part of him knew for certain: they would be all right.


	39. Bittersweet Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Two notes, first, when you see the phrase "pedestian curricle" near the end of the chapter, it basically means a 19th century bicycle. The lovely ariadneslostthread and I had a conversation once about Combeferre probably thinking bicycles were amazing, and so I made a little homage to that. Second, after this, as far as I am calculating, there will be two more chapters: a normal one and then a big time jump to an epilogue. Thank you for sticking around through this long journey (apologies for the delay, major health problems abounded toward the end of the year. Yay for being healthy again) and I am excited to get (what I believe) are the final two chapters out to you. But for now, enjoy this one!

The arrival of the post had never been quite much cause for excitement in their household. All said and done they didn’t really get much post at all, and what normally arrived came with bated breath, as did knocks at the door. Had someone found out the truth about Enjolras? Had someone found out the truth about Valjean? Had Javert, now staying what appeared to be at least semi-permanently in Avignon, abruptly changed his mind over the three weeks since their encounter in town and his subsequent visits to their house? The most exciting piece of news they’d received recently was that Combeferre’s parents were coming to visit soon. Combeferre was different from his family in many ways, but they were close, and Enjolras had visited their home twice, welcomed with open arms, a great deal of warm, friendly chatter, and a plate of food. Enjolras knew Combeferre was immensely pleased they were coming, and they were no doubt ecstatic their son still lived. They’d been invaluable in cleaning out his and Combeferre’s rooms in Paris, and Enjolras looked forward to seeing them

But when Enjolras sees Courfeyrac round the corner and into the living room with an envelope in hand, he is practically a blur.

“Is everything all right?” Enjolras asks, concerned. “What’s the matter?” He’s doing his best to stop fearing the unexpected so much, but it’s a major adjustment after the past months when the smallest thing might mean they were in imminent danger.

“Nothing at all,” Courfeyrac says, eyes lit up with joy. “But we’ve just received Musichetta’s reply! The return address is different from her usual one, but it’s her handwriting and it’s addressed to ‘R’ so there’s no doubt it’s her.”

“She is swift,” Enjolras replies, smiling himself now at this connection to their lives in Paris, their lives before the barricade fell and everything changed. “Could you gather everyone? I think they’re mostly in the kitchen. I would, but my leg is…” he trails off at Courfeyrac’s patient hand.

“My friend,” Courfeyrac says with a grin, handing Enjolras the letter. “I am simply pleased that you have started asking for help when you require it, so there need be no explanation as to why you do. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

Enjolras’ smile widens a little, and he watches Courfeyrac go. Valjean takes his places almost immediately, having no doubt heard Courfeyrac accidentally slamming the door.

“What’s the excitement?” he asks, sitting down in the chair next to Enjolras, raising one eyebrow in benevolent curiosity, and Enjolras notices just how content he looks. Truly happy, carrying less of the metaphysical weight he’d been burdened with when they’d met. He still jumps if he hears sudden sounds, but face has more color, the bags under his eyes less pronounced as though he is catching up on 20 years of lost sleep.

“We’ve received a reply from our friend Musichetta in Paris,” Enjolras answers, thumb running over the handwriting on the front.

“She lived with Joly and Bossuet?”

“She did,” Enjolras says, his mind jumping back to a Christmas party there, all of them laughing over wine as Joly narrated the unexpected tale of Bossuet somehow being a better decorator than Musichetta. “She was discreet, it’s simply addressed to ‘R’ so I don’t think anyone will have suspected anything.”

“I have no doubt all of you showed the utmost discretion,” Valjean says. “Did you not, after all, run a fairly secret society filled with incendiary revolutionary rhetoric?”

Valjean meets his eye, a glint of amusement shining within them.

“You are teasing me good sir,” he says, but a swell of happiness builds inside him for a moment, teaching him that even in these times of difficulty, grief, and immense change, there are still small, precious moments that he cherishes, moments that allow him to hold onto his hope through the storm that always threatens in these past months.

“Hmmm,” Valjean says, eyes flitting up as Courfeyrac returns with the rest of the household in tow, everyone looking delighted with traces of apprehension.

“Well,” Grantaire says as he approaches, a hint of playfulness in his voice and a new spring in his step that Enjolras noticed appearing in the past few days. He certainly looks healthier. “I do believe it is addressed to me, so I should open it.”

“Perhaps so,” Enjolras says, handing over the letter. Everyone sits down, gathering around, quiet for a moment as memory physically appears among them in the form of this letter, waiting with anxiety and excitement to read its contents. Grantaire slits open the envelope with the letter opener Cosette hands him, unfolding the single page and reading over it himself for a moment before reading it aloud.

_Dear R (And Company),_

_I thought I’d keep this first correspondence short for safety’s sake, but receiving your letter was a wonderful relief. I am no longer in residence at J &B’s for safety reasons and the fact that those rooms were let in J’s name. Adelaide and I have let some rooms together, and though they’re small they are cozy, though my books take up a fair bit of room. I’m sure our favorite friend who enjoyed a good brawl would be pleased. I’m infinitely relieved to hear of your safety and of our charming friend’s recovery from illness and injury. Please tell everyone I say hello and send my affection, and I am glad you have found kind friends to help you in your time of need. Perhaps one day I might come and visit! _

_I miss our shared people in common so much it physically aches, and I know all of you must as well. These past months have been some of the most difficult of my life, but there are some women’s groups here in Paris, underground, that strive for the same ideals all of you did, and I’ve been to a few meetings. So has Adelaide. We always believed in it, but losing those we did, well…it lit something in us._

_I assume you must be wondering about what happened with the arrangements. J’s family took his body, and our poet’s family his, and Bh’s his. I took B’s, and Bh’s mother, bless her, helped me cover the bit that I couldn’t. She’d never had the pleasure of meeting her son’s Parisian friends, she said, but they were his family and so hers in turn. I dislike that J &B could not be buried together, but I had no power over the situation, and I know they’re together in whatever Heaven exists. _

_I want to get this posted, so I will end here, but please, write back when you can. I know you must be careful, but it helps more than you know._

_I know I’m not there to tease or nag you, R. But take care of yourself, all right? J &B would demand I make sure to tell you that. Also I have one of Courf’s romance novels here, and though I’m tempted to keep it, if he’d like something familiar I can send it. _

_All my love,_

“I always thought Musichetta above reading my silly romance novels,” Courfeyrac muses, fond.

“She will read anything,” Grantaire says, hand tightening over the piece of paper for a moment as his eyes rove over the final lines, no doubt missing Joly and Bossuet fiercely. It starts to shake, and without drawing too much attention, Enjolras puts one hand over Grantaire’s and lightly squeezes it before drawing away. Grantaire looks up, a melancholy half smile on his lips as he meets Enjolras’ eye for a moment.

“I am pleased she’s living with Adelaide,” Feuilly says, taking the letter from Grantaire for a moment. “That she’s not alone. That neither of them are.”

“So am I,” Combeferre adds. “It also would seem that Bahorel’s mother was everything he ever said. I’m so glad she could help Musichetta with…” He struggles for a moment, thinking on how to phrase it. “Everything,” he finally says, sadness shading his eyes.

It’s silent for a moment. They are all relieved and happy to hear from Musichetta, Enjolras knows, but it is also the first time they’ve really considered their friends’ funerals. They hadn’t dared think of it before. For Enjolras’ part, he’d feared his friends’ families wouldn’t get there in time, spread out as they were across France, feared the National Guard would simply dump their bodies in a mass grave and none of them could prevent it from happening. Until now, he hadn’t experienced a great deal of death of people close to him, but he didn’t have much emotional stock in visiting graves. He knows some people do, knows it brings them comfort, but for him, those bodies buried in the ground weren’t his friends, not really. For his part, he treasures the things of theirs he still possesses: the knife Bahorel and Jehan bought him, complete with the carved designs, the tricolor cravat Bossuet bought him half as a joke that Combeferre’s parents had rescued from their rooms, the mug Joly gave him a few birthdays ago, ‘E’ etched into the center. _Drink more tea when its cold out, Enjolras_ , Joly had said. _It’s good for you._ Most of all he treasures the memories of them. He thinks of how Joly snorted when Bossuet said something that made him laugh uncontrollably, of how Bahorel said an angry Jean Provaire frightened him more than any large man who challenged him in a fight. He should write them down, he thinks, so as never to forget them. They should all write them down. But all of this aside, he hadn’t wanted his friends in a mass grave. Their physical forms deserved respect, and he was relieved they’d been buried properly.

“Well,” Valjean says, breaking the quiet. “If Musichetta should ever like to come visit, there is absolutely no objection on my part. She would be most welcome. As would any of your friends.”

“I certainly would adore having another woman around,” Cosette says, a twinkle in her eye. “I’m a bit surrounded by you lot around here, I’m afraid.”

 “Tired of us already?” Courfeyrac asks, throwing a dramatic hand to his forehead in feigned hurt.

“Tired of you, perhaps,” Marius says, quirking one eyebrow and smirking in a fashion so reminiscent of Bahorel it’s a bit frightening.

“Marius Pontmercy!” Courfeyrac exclaims, but he cannot keep from laughing. “You grow bold and have picked up on your friends’ habits it would seem. Oh, how I long for the days when you would not dare tease me so well.”

“You do not,” Marius argues.

“No,” Courfeyrac agrees. “But do be careful, I will get you back for that.”

“I’m sure he’s trembling in his boots,” Combeferre says, dry.

“You turn on me too!” Courfeyrac says, rising from his own chair to sit on the arm of Enjolras’ and linking their arms. “But not you, Enjolras, surely. I can always count on you to be on my side.”

“Oh, without a doubt,” Enjolras says, his smile turning Courfeyrac’s lips into a grin.

“The story of my life,” Combeferre mutters, and in response, Feuilly bursts out laughing.

“Paris would be left in a trail of fire if not for you keeping these two incendiaries in check, Combeferre?” Grantaire asks, joining in.

“No doubt,” Combeferre says, but he’s doing his very best not to laugh, and after a moment he can no longer contain it, releasing a chuckle despite himself, the sound building and turning into a full laugh that fills Enjolras’ heart to the brim.

It’s a strange moment, bittersweet and filled with the ache of missing their friends and the strange familiarity of this new life they’re leading, mixed with the unmistakable sounds of joy. This, he supposes, is life at its most complex, never quite one extreme or another, but a spectrum of emotion and occurrences. Choices. Hopes. Tears of loss in your eyes even as you laugh with friends. Courfeyrac says something else he doesn’t quite hear, and Gavroche starts off the chain of laughter, bending over and shaking from mirth. Enjolras meets Valjean’s eyes for a moment, and for the first time since all of this happened, he knows for sure, a flash of his usual certainty making itself known somewhere within the depths of his tattered but resilient soul. He looks at his hand, the one Javert cut, running his thumb over the scar there, and he does not regret. Despite everything, despite their immense losses, his injuries, and his period of doubt and guilt, he cannot regret now. Their friends would not want him to, because though all of their hearts break for missing them, they died _for_ something, they stood for something they all shared, and he will not let guilt and doubt mar that sacrifice. He cannot. He will continue on for them, in their memory and in the memory of everything they fought for. He will walk forward as he has always done, sure of their dreams.

They all will.

* * *

A week later, Javert makes the now familiar walk down the drive of Valjean’s residence. He sees Enjolras sitting outside with Gavroche, papers, books, and pencils spread out in front of them, the late summer sunshine glinting off their blonde heads as they work. It is yet another sign of the differences between them that these insurgents and Valjean would think of trying to educate a boy who Javert would have long thought a lost cause. But a part of him he keeps hidden away also feels a kinship with Gavroche, remembers feeling a sliver of concern for the boy even at the same moment Gavroche called him out on the barricade. It was a small thing he wouldn’t admit to at the time, because in some respects, he’d _been_ Gavroche, and he hated remembering that.

The most striking contrast between them, he supposed, was that Gavroche chose to fight against what had happened to him, did not see his place in society as a shame, whereas Javert had always done so. Where he was a rebel, Javert fell into the lines of society, even if he was always on the fringe, observing and watching over more than actually participating. Gavroche was defiant, spirited. Javert was none of those things. He wasn’t even sure he could be. He was fascinated by Gavroche and abhorred by him all in one moment. Fascinated because he represented the unknown Javert was trying to approach, abhorred because he stood for a past Javert despised thinking about.

_“Your self-loathing is your biggest flaw, Javert,” Valjean told him a few days ago over a game of chess. “But I know something about disliking yourself.”_

_“You do?” Javert asked, unable to hide his astonishment._

_“See there?” Valjean said, moving his piece. “You don’t truly know me. You know what you imagine to be true.”_

_“I knew the man who walked out of that galley,” Javert insisted. “I did.”_

_“In a way,” Valjean said. “But you didn’t think about why I was that way. Saying I don’t regret my anger and some of my actions, saying that I haven’t struggled with who that man was all these years, would be a lie, but I know why it happened. I know why I ended up that way, but it took years for me to come to terms with it fully. And it was partly in thanks to these boys and very much to Cosette. But people change, Javert. Pieces of that man still exist, but I am not him any longer. But it did not happen immediately, it took time.”_

_Javert moved his piece in silence, head swirling with thoughts, thinking that perhaps even at his most furious, even when he stole the silver from the bishop he spoke of, that Valjean was a better man than he’d ever been._

_“It is not easy to change,” he says._

_“No,” Valjean says, remembering a moment he doesn’t share. “It is not.”_

He watches Cosette bring out some tea to the pair, and stops dead in his tracks. He’s found it hard to face her during any of his visits, because she’d seen him at his most vulnerable, even more vulnerable than he’d been that day outside the jail, because nothing is more vulnerable than someone seeing you attempt to take your own life.  And when he thinks of Fantine, of his role in her end, he cannot even look at Cosette. She puts Gavroche’s tea in front of him, then turns, poking Enjolras directly in the chest with her finger, then pointing at his leg. Enjolras frowns, but it’s fondly intended, Javert can tell, and he complies with whatever Cosette asked of him, propping his leg up in the chair. Once she’s gone, Javert continues his pace.

Javert sees Gavroche look up first, tapping Enjolras on the shoulder before pointing in his direction. Enjolras looks up, his expression mostly unreadable from this distance, but he looks far more curious than he does nervous. His eyebrows furrow for a moment in confusion, and Javert knows it must be because of the drastic change in his appearance. Unlike the last two times he’s stopped by (mostly to speak with Valjean) his face was still covered in scruff, hair unkempt, clothes wrinkled and mussed beyond repair. But he’d felt a fraction more like himself over the past few days, and he’d seen fit to shave and trim his hair, pulling it back as was his usual habit. He’d also changed, regaining something of his formerly militaristic appearance.

“Enjolras,” Javert says, stopping a few feet away and waiting for permission before advancing further. In their recent talks Valjean made it clear that Javert was to show respect and sensitivity to Enjolras’ nerves and stress, some of which Javert himself was responsible for, and Javert wishes to make something productive out of his growing guilt.

“Javert,” Enjolras says with a nod, a silent gesture that letting Javert know he can approach.

Gavroche closes his book, but lingers for a moment, sensing they need to be alone but his protective instincts kicking in. He might only be an eleven-year-old boy, but Javert knows he wants to protect his surrogate older brother nonetheless. Gavroche’s muscles tense, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks at Javert, not fully trusting him. Javert recalls the tall, muscular man Gavroche sat with at the barricade, and suspects he’s trying to take on whatever role that man would have now when it came to Enjolras. He remembers his conversation with Enjolras about the man who gave him the knife for his visits into the more dangerous parts of Paris. His brain clicks.

Bahorel. That was his name.

He thinks of Enjolras’ face that night, of the moonlight casting his hair silver and making his skin appear even paler, the bruise Javert left on his cheek dark, yellow-tinged purple against it.

Enjolras’ voice draws him back into the present.

“How about you go look for Feuilly out in the garden?” Enjolras says, laying a light hand on Gavroche’s arm and pointing out, knowing that Gavroche can still keep an eye on him from there but will be out of earshot, satisfying the boy’s desire to protect him while leaving the two of them to speak.

Gavroche nods, understanding his meaning, shooting daggers at Javert before marking his place and walking off slowly toward Feuilly, who is helping Madame Bellard with the vegetables.

 “Smart boy,” Javert says. “He doesn’t trust me. I wouldn’t trust me, either, were I in his place.”

“He’ll come around one day,” Enjolras says, giving one last glance toward the garden before giving Javert his full attention.

“Have you come around?”

“I’m getting there,” Enjolras replies, not unkindly. “You’ve been here three times without going back on your word, and Valjean trusts you only mean well now. If Valjean feels that way, I cannot help but make my best effort to feel the same. But that is me. I cannot and will not speak for the others. I have only asked that they allow me to do as I see fit here.”

“The next thing I know Valjean will be appointed for sainthood,” Javert says, rolling his eyes.

“I find the likelihood to be extremely high,” Enjolras says, and though he doesn’t laugh, Javert does smirk in strangely fond amusement that he welcomes and rejects in equal measure. “Are you here to see him?”

“Eventually,” Javert says. The previous two times Javert and Valjean have sat out on the upstairs portico, playing chess, discussing Valjean’s life and sometimes his own. The first time Javert raised his voice at Valjean in frustration, and though he hadn’t reciprocated, the small, fierce flash of the man Javert met in the galleys emerged, letting him know he wouldn’t tolerate such behavior. This was his home and his new family, and he would protect them. It was gone in a moment, replaced with the gentle man he was now, but the split second was fresh in Javert’s mind.

Perhaps, Javert thought, gentle was what Valjean had always been, until the world turned him into something else. Something frightening and base and angry. Not for the first time, Javert feels himself flooded with an odd, begrudging respect for Valjean, because he’s more than certain he could not have made the same changes in character. Though, he supposes, that is what he’s trying to do now, but he knows now without a doubt, even if he hates it, that Valjean is a better man than he. Sometimes he still thinks it will be the end of him.

“So you’re here to see me?” Enjolras asks, drawing Javert out of his introspection.

“Yes,” Javert says, not stepping around the truth. Up above, he sees a window open, sees a bespectacled face look out and pause for a moment before darting back inside, though he leaves the window open. Enjolras sees the face too, a mix of affection and concern apparent in his eyes. A second face leans out, and Javert recognizes Courfeyrac, who frowns, but a wave of curiosity passes over his face. A third face appears just after Courfeyrac, but Grantaire scarcely gives Javert a moment’s look before he darts back in, shaking his head.

“I suppose…” Javert is about to say ‘your friend’ but stops himself. “I suppose Combeferre isn’t ready to speak to me, then.”

“He probably will eventually,” Enjolras answers. “It is his nature. But I will not force him under any circumstance. It is harder for my friends I think, to speak to you as I do. I suffered through something, but they watched, and sometimes it is easier for the person who experienced the wrong to forgive than it is for the people who love them. I will not force him to speak to you. I won’t force any of them. I would not disrespect them in such a way.”

Javert huffs slightly, eyes flickering up toward the window once more before turning back toward Enjolras.  Nothing about this is easy, even if he wishes it was.

“You certainly stick to your convictions. Even now.”

“And you don’t?” Enjolras questions. “You certainly held fast to convictions of your own for most of your life.”

“The opposite is clearly true,” Javert grumbles, gesturing around him with his hand. “Or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Sticking to one’s convictions is not about staying stuck in the same mindset,” Enjolras says, looking him directly in the eyes. “It’s about being willing to broaden the paths you tread to accomplish your goals, to widen your world and open up your mind. Staying yourself, but expanding. I learned that lesson as my friends broadened my paths when I first came to Paris. Was not your goal to be a good man?”

Javert doesn’t answer for a moment, because he’s unsure if that ever _was_ his goal. Perhaps his goal had only been to be the exact opposite of the people who’d raised him, of the world he’d grown up in. Society had deemed that “bad” so wasn’t the other end of the spectrum “good?” That was previously his thought process, though he gotten so wrapped up in it that he fears he left “good” behind a long time ago. What did his intent matter if he all he did was cause damage?

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I am sure, essentially, of nothing.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Enjolras says. “Otherwise you would not be here.”

There is something about those words, something about the empathetic gleam in the boy’s blue eyes, the eyes he’d so recently seen clouded with pain and drugs and fury, luminous even in their exhaustion and fear. He knows Enjolras is as mortal as he, but that night there was something ethereal about him, as if his purpose filled his blood and flooded into his spirit, bursting out through his eyes, through that look in the jail cell Javert cannot ever forget.  Valjean did the work of cracking his belief system, shattering it until he was poised to jump off a bridge, and that night it felt as if Enjolras picked up the pieces and threw them back in his face, confronting him with the broken bits and showing him they couldn’t ever fit back together. That night, Javert wasn’t sure _he_ , let alone his beliefs, would ever be whole again. He still isn’t.

Enjolras’ voice is kind, and something about the strength it holds even though it wavers ever so slightly, breaks Javert’s emotional barrier again, sending what he assumes is his merciful humanity flowing forth through every part of him. There have been pricks of it before, stabs of almost-pain as all the years he cannot take back poke and prod and torture him, but now the barriers fall. He thinks of his conversations with Valjean, of the chess board and its pieces. Valjean’s benevolent smile mixes with a younger man with yellowed, ill eyes and a grimace of unchecked rage as Javert hands him probation papers.

_Yes, it means I’m free._

_No._

He looks up and sees Enjolras’ face, a little color finally warming his cheeks. It clashes with the deathly pale skin streaked with the prostitute’s blood and the striped shadows of the jail cell. He remembers letting Valjean go with the Pontmercy boy, remembers releasing Enjolras from him, disturbed laughter piercing through the clouds above as if Heaven itself was mocking him. He feels something warm behind his eyes, and Enjolras jumps slightly when Javert looks up, taken aback. The warmth falls and runs down his cheek.

He’s crying.

Without a word he gets up, tossing the chair back and stalking off a good distance away from Enjolras, who does not follow him. He stops short near a tree, resting one hand against it, feeling as if his very breath steals out of his lungs. He swipes at his eyes, ridding his face of any evidence of tears, yet as he turns his back away from the gardens and Enjolras, more prick at his eyes. He cannot even recall the last time he suffered the indignity of tears: he didn’t cry on the bridge, where he almost took his own life, he didn’t cry when the Prefect forced him into retirement, he didn’t cry through any of this whole wretched ordeal, hasn’t cried since he was a young child, and yet now, in this odd moment, it comes.

“No,” he says aloud to himself. “No…this…no.”

His words are broken, jagged pieces that stab him, guilt rushing through his blood. Who has he been? What has he _done_? It is unfathomable that after all this time that he is wrong, but he knows for certain that he is.

“They broke the law,” he mutters. “Why would you think anything but ill of them? How could you were think you were anything but right?”

_But who makes the laws? Certainly not the vast majority of people who have to live under them._ It’s Enjolras’ voice in his head this time, which is actually far more welcome than his own torturous inner demons.

_Please M'sieur, she's but that high! Holy God, is there no mercy?_ Fantine’s voice appears, which is still seared into his brain after all these years, its desperation agonizing.

_This man’s done no wrong and he needs a doctor’s care_. Valjean’s voice now, the voice that has followed him for years.

_It’s none of my business, really, and I don’t know what’s troubling you, but I hope you find some way to get through. Someone to talk to. It’s worth a try, don’t you think?_ It’s Cosette’s voice, the voice that is the only reason he’s standing here today, and he’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.

_The man of mercy comes again, and talks of justice_. His own voice makes him cringe.

Man of mercy.

He doesn’t even know what that means.

_Except you do,_ that voice that’s been ever present in the back of his mind for the past few months says, though it sounds oddly kind. _Or you wouldn’t be here._

Those same damn words.

The truth is, he doesn’t know if he believes in Mercy after a life without it, or more to the point, whether he’s capable of it.

_But you’ve shown it already,_ the voice says. _Even though it was wrenched out of you with blood, sweat, and tears._

“Sir?” a voice says behind him, unsure. “Inspector?”

“I’m not an inspector anymore, boy,” he snaps before he can think, blinking once more to clear the offending moisture out of his eyes. Feuilly stands before him, twisting a cap in his hands, looking uncomfortable but not afraid.

“No,” Feuilly says without breaking stride. “You’re not. I…are you all right?”

Javert doesn’t answer for a moment, reminded a bit of Bertrand from the office, who was always asking if he was all right. His gaze moves from Feuilly to the group of young men now “helping” Madame Bellard in the garden. Courfeyrac is throwing bits of dirt at Combeferre and Grantaire with the assistance of Gavroche, while Marius and Cosette look on with laughter, the housekeeper shaking her head fondly. They all came out, he supposes, to keep watch on him while he was with Enjolras, observing but not interfering. Several yards away, Valjean, who emerged from inside, sits with Enjolras, looking on fondly.

It is simultaneously everything Javert never had and what he swore he never wanted.

“You do not avoid me as your other friends do?” Javert asks, evading Feuilly’s question.

“We are all of our own minds and each of us must do what he must,” Feuilly answers. “If Valjean and Enjolras are consenting to…” he trails off, unsure of the phrasing he wants. “Well, I would like to help, if I am able. I was not ready before, and I am not sure I trust you and I am angry at what you did to Enjolras, but everyone must start somewhere. You are making an effort. I have not forgiven you, but perhaps offering my assistance as Enjolras and Valjean have will help me to do so, eventually.”

Javert considers the young man before him, the one Valjean said grew up in circumstances not too dissimilar from his own: poor, eventually without parents, left to fend for himself in the streets and make his own way. Yet Feuilly is a far cry from the man Javert has always been since he can remember. Javert barely knows him, but he scarcely needs to. He sees the compassion, the empathy, the _mercy_ in his eyes, this boy who could have turned into Javert at any opportunity and chose every opposite path, who read and studied and risked his life so that people might have a better life. Feuilly, it seems, can forgive him eventually, but Javert isn’t sure he can forgive himself. Before the past few months happened, he would have said guilt was a useless emotion. He would have said there was no need for it because the people he arrested deserved it for the crimes they committed. That day he stepped into Valjean’s office and told him to file charges, he didn’t feel guilty, he felt ashamed, and it wasn’t the same thing. It was the way of things. He’d done a wrong and he should have been punished for it. There was no bending the rules under any circumstance.

Or so he thought, until Valjean. Until Enjolras. Until Cosette and all these godforsaken young men.

“And the effort is enough for you?” he asks, his heart still racing so fast beneath his skin that were he not wearing a jacket, the pulse would have been clearly visible beneath his shirt.

“For now,” Feuilly answers, distant in tone, but with a mild, unthreatening expression. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Whether or not you were all right.”

Javert isn’t sure he will ever be all right. He isn’t sure he’s ever been all right. Because as it turns out, his whole life might have been a series of the same mistakes that he never knew he was making.

_Those who falter and those who fall must pay the price_.

There on the bridge after releasing Valjean, Javert thought he was paying the price for his weakness by jumping off the bridge, but he’d been wrong. But now his whole life was crumbled, and he was paying the price for his every merciless action in the form of his broken psyche, in his forced retirement, in his being here, among convicts and insurgents.

But he’d made a _choice_. He still didn’t quite know how it was feasible, but somehow he knew that they were _right_. And he wasn’t. Whatever that meant.

“I’m fine,” Javert says, terse but less combative that before. “Did Valjean and Enjolras send you to retrieve me?”

“No,” Feuilly says, the smallest, curious smile on his face. “They wanted to give you a moment. I came on my own.”

Javert pauses.

“Thank you,” he says, the words sounding odd, because a few months ago, he never would have directed them at someone like Feuilly. At any of the people here.

Javert looks back over at Valjean and Enjolras, a decision forming in his mind, a decision he isn’t ready for, so he holds off, turning back to Feuilly. He clasps his hands behind his back, feeling awkward.

“So you were a fanmaker in Paris?”

“I was,” Feuilly says, drawing out the words, confused but going along.

“Yet you spent so much of your time with students?”

“The larger group were students and workers both,” Feuilly says, slow. “Though my closest companions were students, yes.” He does not go further, clearly aware that Javert is genuinely curious but evading and Javert inwardly curses the intelligence of the people around him.

“Why?”

“You are avoiding going back over to Enjolras and Valjean,” Feuilly says. “And that is why you came here today. If you should like to ask me these questions later, feel free to do so.”

Feuilly tilts his head, glancing at him once more as if he’s trying to read his mind, then walks off toward the garden, leaving Javert standing alone and feeling foolish. He looks down at the ground for a moment before brushing the stray hairs out of his face, straightening his jacket, and walking back toward them. As he approaches, the activity in the garden ceases, but none of them walk over to defer him from his course toward Valjean and Enjolras, though he does notice Courfeyrac placing a steady hand on Combeferre’s arm as his friend’s eyes narrow, his hands trembling just enough for Javert to see. Enjolras and Valjean look up at the sound of his footsteps, but he remains standing.

“Won’t you sit, Javert?” Valjean says, eyeing him, looking calm but a bit mistrustful of his erratic behavior.

“No,” Javert responds.

_Mercy: compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm._

That was the definition he’d looked up, feeling like an idiot while doing so. But it rings now in his head as he looks at the old and the young man before him. He looks directly at Enjolras because it is a fraction easier to do so right now than it is to look at Valjean.

“I hurt you,” he says, abrupt. “That night in the jail cell. On the day following.”

 “Yes,” Enjolras says, eyes flickering over to Valjean for a split second before looking back at Javert.

“I abused my power. I injured you.”

_In more ways than one._

Every word is agony, and yet at the same time the stones of guilt in his chest lighten ever so much with each one.

“Yes,” Enjolras repeats, confused but rapt. “What…”

Javert waves his hand, indicating that he isn’t finished. His mind goes back to the bridge, to the black, cruel, unforgiving sky that did not grant him even the light of a single star.

_Shall his sins be forgiven? Shall his crimes be reprieved?_

Instead of asking those questions of another, he is now asking them of himself. He supposes he might have been doing the same then, but he couldn’t realize it as such.

_Look down, Javert! He’s standing in his grave! Give way, Javert, there is a life to save._

_Take him, Valjean! Before I change my mind_.

_You are dead, Enjolras. Do you hear me? Dead. As far as society knows, Rene Enjolras was shot and killed by my own hand in an escape attempt… I need to hear you say that you understand me, boy._

Mercy mercy mercy.

He’s shown it before, surely he can….

“I…” Javert tries.

_He pins Enjolras to the ground as the words he cannot forget come spilling out of the boy’s mouth:_

_“You refuse to show even the smallest ounce of mercy to your fellow man. You refuse to see the need for change, and you allow the people you’re supposed to protect to live in darkness, under constant night, because of your own fear, your own self-loathing.”_

_More, Javerts tell the doctor. Give him more._

“I am…” He can’t quite finish.

_The people’s he’s supposed to protect._

_I am from the gutter too._

_He is one of them. Perhaps that isn’t such a bad thing, after all._

“I am…sorry,” he finally says, still looking Enjolras dead in the eye.

Enjolras’ hands are shaking. He closes his eyes, and against the skin of his eyelids, Javert can almost see the memories playing across. The cell and the prostitute and the knife and the gun and the drugs. The barricade. His friends. The bullets. The blood. Death and life and heartbreak and hope and grief all in flashes and moments and seconds. He’d seen a similar expression as he’d wiped away the blood from the boy’s face that morning in the jail cell, but there are signs of healing now, signs of progress. He’s more solid than when Javert watched him as he lay unconscious and limp on the wooden cot, hit hard by the Laudanum, and that stirs something in his heart to which Javert cannot put a name. Enjolras opens his eyes again, and they are wet, but tears do not fall. They are weary, but the gleam of purpose, of drive, is unmistakable. Valjean’s hand goes to rest on Enjolras’ shoulder and now they are both looking straight at him and Javert can barely stand it.

“Thank you,” Enjolras finally says, voice soft but steady now. “I appreciate that. I truly do.”

Javert observes him for a moment, thinking of how contrasted the Enjolras before him is from the Enjolras that night in the jail cell. Still the same intensity, but calm, approachable, warm, and Javert does not fear him as he had that night. Yet both of those men rest inside Enjolras. So many things are a spectrum, Javert considers, and he hadn’t accounted for that before.

_A charming young man capable of being terrible._

Javert nods in response to Enjolras, and somehow in the quiet, they both know the other is sincere. Javert pulls his eyes away from Enjolras, looking at Valjean, who looks back. He cannot say he is sorry out loud to Valjean, not now, not here because he will not remain composed and he is not ready. There is too much between them, and he suspects there will yet be time, more returning to this place and sitting on the other side of a chessboard from Valjean. And how does one apologize to someone who forgave him long ago?

_There’s nothing that I blame you for._

But there should be.

_You’ve done your duty, nothing more._

_I’m sorry,_ he says inside his head and Valjean continues gazing at him, then seems to read the words in his eyes, and inclines his head. One day perhaps, he will say so aloud.

“I must go,” Javert says.

“Will you return?” Valjean asks.

“Yes,” Javert says, terse. “In a few days, perhaps.”

He does not trust the strength of his composure to say anything further.

Javert does not look at the group gathered in the garden as he practically flees, striding quickly away. He cannot look at them because they represent too much that he does not yet understand and that somehow he still wishes he possessed. But before he can reach the end of the drive, he hears smaller, lighter footsteps behind him.

“Inspector?” Cosette asks, unsure but not timid in her approach. He does not correct her address.

“Yes?” he says, turning his head so he can look at her but unable to make himself turn fully around.

“I…well, I’m learning to make eclairs and I thought…I thought I might give you one for your journey back into Avignon?”

At this, he is forced to turn his entire body around as she hands it out to him. She’s not smiling, but her eyes are kind. He thinks of Fantine and how he nearly put her in jail, of how she begged him and told him of her child, the very child standing before him now, handing him a baked good she made herself. He thinks of Valjean and the fact that the once hardened, angry convict raised this pure, sweet soul of a girl that stopped him from ending his life on a bridge. He takes it from her and starts walking away again, turning his head once more after a few steps.

“Madame Pontmercy?” He does not call her Cosette. Even if she asked, he could not do it. He doesn’t deserve the privilege.

“Yes monsieur?”

He pauses, thinking that the sentiment he wants to express cannot be verbalized, so he says the only thing he thinks of, the only thing he can manage.

“Thank you.”

She smiles, and he knows she takes his meaning.

It’s for much more than the éclair.

* * *

“You met with this doctor in town two weeks ago?” Enjolras asks, twisting his fingers in his lap, nervous as they sit in wait for the doctor. Grantaire accompanied them today at Combeferre’s request so that the doctor might examine him also, just to be certain his recovery was progressing as well as it seemed. The withdrawal was past, but it had been difficult on Grantaire’s body. To Combeferre’s surprise, Grantaire hadn’t really fought him on it aside from a cursory sarcastic remark.

“I did,” Combeferre says. “I was directed to him by one of the doctors administering my exam in Marseilles.”

“When will you know of your exam? Do you think Grantaire is all right in there?”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre answers, resting a hand over his friend’s. “Why are you so nervous?”

Enjolras smiles a little, squeezing Combeferre’s hand. “My apologies. I simply have not had anyone tend to my medical care through this save you and Valjean’s doctor in Paris, and I’m afraid my being largely confined to the house save sparing visits to town has made me jumpy.”

“You are afraid he will recognize you from the posters?”

“Well, it is not out of the question,” Enjolras answers. “And it would not only affect me. It would affect all of us, if he did and chose to act on it. But I am…I am trying not to worry about things I cannot control. I only want to be careful.”

“I know,” Combeferre says. “But if it puts your mind at ease, he apparently does a great deal of free work for poorer members of the community in Avignon, so I suspect even if he did recognize you, he’s probably at least somewhat on our side. Besides, we’ve been here going on three months now. People’s memories fade. To add to that, it was put in the papers that you were killed.”

Combeferre watches Enjolras’ smile falter, and his own heart sinks. The past three weeks or so have been better, and he hates seeing the progress stumble, even though he knows it is the same for them all, though Enjolras and Marius have physical components.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Combeferre tries, but falls silent at Enjolras raises his hand, his lips quirking upward.

“No, don’t apologize, please. I only…I forget sometimes, that I am thought dead, and it feels strange to hear it, still.”

He doesn’t say more, and Combeferre thinks he’s left something out.

“And?” he asks, not standing on ceremony.

“You said people’s memories fade,” Enjolras says, looking up. “I just…I don’t want them to forget what happened in Paris. I don’t want them to forget our friends, all our comrades who fell, for what we stood for. There is so much to be done. They cannot forget. We cannot forget.”

“We will never forget, my friend,” Combeferre says, pressing Enjolras’ hand. “And when we are able, we will find ways to do our work again, you have said that yourself many times. But I do not think the people will forget, either. History has not shown it to be so. Tumultuous, yes. Difficult, yes. But forward. We will make sure of it.”

“Lost battles are just as important as victorious ones,” Enjolras says, his smile returning, wider now. “Both make up the revolution we’re fighting to enact.”

It’s quiet between them for a moment, but it’s a familiar kind, comfortable and contemplative even if it’s a bit frayed at the edges from their apprehension about the appointment.

“I miss Joly every day,” Combeferre says. “But it is in moments like this when I miss him most. I would so welcome his counsel about your health, about Grantaire’s.”

“He could make us laugh even in the most grave, serious moments if he sensed we needed it,” Enjolras responds, reaching out to put one hand on Combeferre’s forearm. “And I miss him with every passing moment. But please, my friend, do not feel as if you have not done enough. Grantaire is well. He’s been out teaching Gavroche a few boxing moves in the nice weather, despite it all, I even feel as if he might smile more than I’ve seen. And me, well…without you, I’d be dead.”

“Enjolras…”

“No,” Enjolras says, firm, and Combeferre ceases, hearing him out. “I was stubborn about my injuries after the infection faded because I was so wrapped up in what Javert was or wasn’t going to do in my determination to protect all of you that I hardly listened until we fought. You made me see sense. You took extremely good care of me in the days directly after the barricade, after Javert. You have been patient and understanding with my emotional and physical troubles. There is never anything I can do to thank you enough.”

Combeferre reaches up, placing one hand over the one of Enjolras’ that rests on his arm.

“There is no need for such thanks, but I appreciate it heartily nevertheless,” he says. “Your spirit, my friend, your determination and your love, that was worth saving. The world is better with you in it. Besides, you are resilient. Incredibly so.”

“Perhaps,” Enjolras says.

“For certain.”

Neither can say anything else, because at that moment Doctor Baudin knocks and enters.

“Doctor Baudin,” Combeferre says, standing up from his chair and greeting the other man. “It’s nice to see you again. How is Grantaire?”

“Straight to the point then,” the doctor replies, but there is a friendly twinkle in his eyes. He gives off a grandfatherly impression with the greying hair at his temples and the way the skin crinkles at his eyes when he smiles. “I believe your friend will make a full recovery. I do recommend he still take it easy for a few more weeks to give his body a chance to catch up given the physical and emotional stress it’s been under. But he seems determined.”

“We lost some friends these past few months,” Combeferre says. “To…illness. It made him to determine to remain healthy for all of us, in their memory, and for himself.” He turns, gesturing toward Enjolras. “This is my friend, Rene Fauchelevent.” He tells the lie smoothly, surprising himself at just how easy it is.

“Monsieur,” Enjolras says, putting out his hand.

The doctor returns the gesture. “So I’ve been told you suffered two bullet injuries?” His eyes drift toward the cane resting in the corner of the room.

“Yes. I was attacked while walking home rather late in Paris. When I didn’t give the man my money, he shot me in the shoulder, and as I struggled to get the weapon away from him it went off and well, things didn’t quite go my way.”

“I should say not,” Doctor Baudin replies, and Combeferre feels relief flood through him when the doctor doesn’t prod further. “Well, from what Combeferre’s professor wrote in his letter, I’m sure he’s taken excellent care of you, but second opinions are always a wise decision. If you could remove your jacket, shirt, trousers and cravat, I’ll take a look.”

Combeferre’s ears perk at the news that somehow one of his professors contacted Doctor Baudin, but when he sees the color recede slowly from Enjolras’ face at the thought of being this physically vulnerable in front of someone he doesn’t know, decides to wait until they are finished to inquire further. Doctor Baudin however, is no fool, and sees Enjolras tense up the moment he makes the request.

“How about I go and offer some tea to your friend while he waits and you can get undressed while I’m gone?” he offers. “Normally my wife assists me with waiting patients, but she is with her sister in town today, so I’m a bit on my own.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, attempting to make his voice steadier than it is, but his hands, Combeferre notice, do not shake. Perhaps this is a mix of Enjolras’ own natural modesty and his current nerves rather than a full-blown attack of stress.

The doctor nods, closing the door behind him. Enjolras releases a breath, and Combeferre approaches him, placing a hand on each of his arms, gentle.

“Are you all right?” he asks, looking Enjolras directly in the eyes, a silent request for the whole truth.

“I think so,” Enjolras replies, putting one hand over his heart but relaxing slightly at Combeferre’s touch. “My heart is beating rather fast, but I just needed a moment. Also, I believe that’s the first time I’ve had to tell the lie myself. At the wedding or during my few trips into town, I always found Valjean telling it for me. I imagine I’ll grow used to it, in time.”

“You will. We all will,” Combeferre says, helping Enjolras remove his jacket and shirt. “But a different name, an invented background, it does not change who you are, you know.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, smiling at him, a flash of the man before the barricades fell sparking in his eyes. “Honestly part of me was trying to keep from laughing at what Bahorel might have thought of that story.”

At this, Combeferre cannot contain a chuckle. “He did teach you how to safely remove a gun from an attacker,” he says. “Even on your most ungraceful day, I doubt you would have gotten yourself shot in the leg during a struggle. But he didn’t question it. Why would he?”

“It is a good thing Courfeyrac’s sisters were visiting him today,” Enjolras says, grinning a bit now. “Or he would have been here, laughing aloud.”

“Mmm,” Combeferre replies, fond. “Yes. I do believe he’s acquainting them with Cosette, and if I’m not mistaken, I think the two of them have a plot to turn Courfeyrac’s sisters into republicans.”

Enjolras laughs, a full, joyous sound bereft of any pain, and Combeferre’s heart lifts.

A few minutes pass, and Doctor Baudin returns, opening the door to reveal Grantaire behind him.

“Might I come in?” Grantaire asks. “I thought I might be of use as Courfeyrac isn’t here.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, looking nervous but composed. “You have been essential in my recovery, so you should be here now.”

Combeferre moves to stand near Grantaire, giving Doctor Baudin room so he might examine Enjolras properly, even if he wishes he could remain by his side through this entire ordeal.

“Exit wound with the shoulder,” Doctor Baudin murmurs, one hand lightly pressing on the scar there. “Any pain?”

“No,” Enjolras answers. “It’s stiff, but no pain, anymore.”

“The exit wound made this one heal much easier than it might have, and the damage, I believe, is on its way to fully recovering. There shouldn’t be any long term-damage here, which is certainly good news.”

“I had my arm in a sling for a time,” Enjolras says. “Do you believe I’ll need it again?”

“No,” Doctor Baudin answers, turning around to look at Combeferre for a moment, intrigued. “Your friend is excellent at his work. This could have been much worse.”

“Well,” Combeferre says, feeling himself blush. “I did have the initial assistance of a doctor in Paris.”

“That might be,” the doctor replies. “But you were the long term caretaker. This wound could have been worse,” he repeats.

The doctor turns back to face Enjolras, and Grantaire, sensing Combeferre’s nerves, squeezes his shoulder for a moment. Till this moment Combeferre hadn’t considered just how nervous he would be today; he’d been too focused on Enjolras’ nerves about this appointment.

“No exit wound with the leg,” Doctor Bardin says, hand not quite touching the angry red scar standing out against Enjolras’ pale skin. Combeferre notices Enjolras looking down at it himself, examining it, the physical reminder of the lost barricade and their departed friends.

“The doctor in Paris removed it,” Combeferre supplies. “It was not…an easy job. It was quite lodged. Which is…”

“What caused some of the muscle damage,” Doctor Baudin finishes. He looks at Enjolras, already apologetic. “I need to assess your pain levels. It’s not going to be pleasant, but I will try to make it as easy as possible. All right?”

Enjolras nods, looking as if he is tempted to shut his eyes, but they remain open, glancing up at Combeferre and Grantaire for encouragement before darting back down to Doctor Baudin and his injured leg. The skin is less irritated than before, but it’s still puckered pinkish red, the scar stretching down a few inches, a far cry from the rounded scar on his shoulder. There is fading bruising from all the trauma, including the scuffle with Javert in the jail cell. To Combeferre’s eyes, it is a messy painting of all the events of the past months, all of their grief and all of their pain spattered across Enjolras’ skin in varying hues of red, purple, and yellow against the pinkish-white.

Doctor Baudin presses down softly and Enjolras winces, doing his best not to draw away.

“Still tender,” Doctor Baudin says. “I’m not surprised. There was an infection?”

“I almost lost my life to it,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre shudders, remembering that night. Remembering telling Enjolras goodbye. Grantaire, once again sensitive to Combeferre’s state, silently slips his hand into Combeferre’s own. “Sometimes it seems a sheer miracle I didn’t.”

“You are a lucky lad,” the doctor replies. “One more time, all right? A bit further up. I’m afraid me simply asking you how much it hurts is not quite adequate enough.”

Enjolras nods, biting his lip, and Combeferre isn’t ready for the gasp of pain Enjolras can’t hold back when the doctor presses harder on the spot where the bullet hit, eyes clenching shut.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says, obviously genuine. “Take a moment. Take some deep breaths for me.”

Enjolras does as requested, breathing in and out of his nose slowly, clearly shocked at the sudden push of severe pain he hasn’t felt in a little while.

“How is it when you walk?” Doctor Baudin asks after Enjolras has caught his breath. “During the rehabilitation Combeferre mentioned?”

“It was agonizing at first,” Enjolras admits. “But though stairs are still the bane of my existence, I am able to walk for longer now without much but an ache. But once I’m up for too long the worse pain returns, or if I put too much weight on it. When we do some exercises without the cane it is…well, it is rather bad. The cane helps a great deal.”

“Hmmm,” the doctor says, stretching Enjolras’ leg out, and Enjolras bites his lip against a smaller wave of pain before his foot is back on the floor.

“Will…” Enjolras stops, closing his eyes again for a moment before he continues, steeling himself. “Will the pain always be this bad?”

“No,” the doctor says, trying to sound reassuring. “Part of the reason there’s so much pain now is that I don’t believe it’s fully healed. Yes, the bullet hole is closed, but it was lodged in muscle and even the best doctor would have done damage getting it out. That, and the infection took its toll.”

“But?” Combeferre says from behind them, sensing it before the doctor can even say the word and Doctor Baudin turns around, facing him.

“It’s difficult to say how much long term muscle damage has been done,” he admits. “I don’t believe it will deteriorate further, and the pain will lessen, but there will always be some weakness and some occasional pain, I’m afraid. I’m just not certain how much, and can only tell as time passes.” He pauses, taking a breath and releasing it before asking his next question. “Was there something that happened? Something that delayed the healing?”

“The infection,” Combeferre begins, but Doctor Baudin puts up a hand, though there is a patient smile on his face.

“Aside from the infection.”

The silence in the room is so loud that it rings in Combeferre’s ears. He cannot even tell this man where the infection came from, cannot tell him they waded through the sewers, that Enjolras was arrested by a police officer who injured him further. The one contingency they hadn’t thought of, the one conversation they hadn’t rehearsed for days, repeating the facts to themselves and each other, and it’s what the doctor asks. After what must be a solid thirty seconds, Combeferre hears Enjolras’ voice through the quiet. His heart flutters with anxiety, but he must trust Enjolras. They cannot avoid the question or walk out, because that will only raise suspicion.

“There was an incident,” Enjolras says. “That exacerbated the injury to my leg. I fell a few times during this incident while it was healing, and there was nearly a recurrence of the infection. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not get into the details. If you want the details, then I’m afraid I’ll have to leave. It is nothing personal, I assure you.”

The doctor pauses again, looking from Enjolras to Grantaire, his eyes finally landing on Combeferre and Combeferre feels the breath leave him. Where are his words? Where is all his quick thinking? He can’t find them and he curses himself for being so fallibly human in this moment even if he would never curse his friends for the same. They’ve been found out. Surely, the doctor knows who Enjolras is. Surely, he will turn them in. He clenches his fists lightly, urging his irrational brain to give way to reason. They know no such thing yet, and he needs to stay in the moment. To the world, Enjolras is dead. Why would anyone question that story? After a long moment, the doctor smiles, nodding at Combeferre. He knows something is going on, but for reasons Combeferre cannot determine, he chooses not to question them further.

“Even though I do not know the secret,” he says. “It is safe with me.”

Combeferre sees Enjolras’ expression harden, though there is a gleam of intrigue in his eyes. But before he grants his intrigue sway he will protect himself, but most importantly he will protect all of them. For a moment, Combeferre sees the same Enjolras he saw at the top of the barricade just after it was built. He stood straight, eyes surveying the scene around him, and looking as if they are gazing somewhere far off in the distance, into the future, where he spends most of his time. There are dreams in front of him, not yet realized, but all there for the taking on the barricade. Dreams that will be spattered with blood, because that is the world they live in. Combeferre imagines a world where Progress exists without stain, but that is not reality here, not for what they’re fighting for. In the labs and the hospitals medicine improves over the centuries, Progress taking hold, but what kind of Progress is it if no one can afford the medicine? If it is kept out of the hands of those who need it most? Thoughts like these are why Combeferre is here in the first place.

_There is change in the air, Combeferre. He’d said. Can you feel it?_

_I can, Combeferre answered_. _I can, Enjolras._

It hadn’t been theirs to enact that day, but it would happen. The look in Enjolras’ eyes now, even as he sits injured and in pain before the doctor, tells Combeferre as much. It is as if Enjolras bears the messages of the future in his gaze, whether any of them live to see it realized or not. What matters is that it happens. It is refreshing to see that look in his friend’s eyes again.

“Are you certain?” Enjolras asks, his tone the same as it was when they’d recruited other students and workers, wanting them to be absolutely sure they knew the danger into which they were entering. It’s a question and a challenge all at once.

To Combeferre’s surprise, Doctor Baudin smiles wider, an odd pride in his eyes, and suddenly he thinks he understands why one of his professors from Paris wrote a doctor all the way in Avignon. Doctor Armistead was the only faculty who ever discussed politics with him, and now, he suspects, Doctor Baudin shares the same ones, at least in part.

“I was a young man during the Revolution, you know,” he finally says. “I spend half my week giving free care to those who cannot afford it.”

Enjolras looks at him hard for a moment, obviously deciding to trust him, and Combeferre breathes a sigh of relief. They are not in danger, for now.

“So there was an incident that hindered the healing,” he continues. “Which is likely why there is still such tenderness now. I do believe that will fade, as I said. But I also think some of the muscle damage is irreparable.”’

Beside him, Grantaire squeezes Combeferre’s hand.

“So there will always be weakness?” Enjolras asks, and Combeferre cannot help but think of his Savate lessons with Bahorel, back in the days when Combeferre foolishly believed that Enjolras was invulnerable to this kind of physical injury. He’d known better then, but that was before the barricade. Before Javert. Before any of this.

“Some,” Doctor Baudin says. “I suspect you will need the cane forever, though you will not depend on it as you do now, but it is possible there will be a permanent limp, though I cannot be sure.”

“I used to do Savate, fencing, horseback riding, all those sorts of things,” Enjolras presses, oddly desperate and accepting all at once. “Is that...out of the question?”

“No,” Doctor Baudin answers, reassuring. “Not entirely. Horseback riding you will be able to do, after a time, as you aren’t standing and your other leg will develop a great deal of strength to make up for the other’s weakness, though I’d recommend slower paces. Savate and other high impact things, well…I would recommend against. The fencing, possibly, there might be a way, as Combeferre suggested to me, for it to help with your rehabilitation, but that will have to come in time. I would suggest taking it very slowly with your leg for the next six months. I know you’ve been working with your friends here at rehabilitation, and I know that’s helped a great deal, but I’d also like you to check in with me once a month, so I might see your progress. You will need to listen to your body, for lack of a better way to put it. When you’re in pain, rest. When it gets weak, go slower. Warm baths also help relax the muscles and I recommend keeping a small dose of Laudanum in the house, particularly when it’s cold outside. I believe there will be good days and bad for the rest of your life. Time will tell how many of each. The fact that you were in good health before is helpful and the fact that you are able to walk fairly well is a small miracle. But there will be some large adjustments.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer for a moment, and all Combeferre can see is his friend at the barricade, swinging around and kicking a national guardsmen hard in the chest with his foot, preventing him from stabbing Combeferre with his bayonet. The guard fell, Enjolras’ boot imprint on his uniform, looking shocked at the sheer power of Enjolras’ force. He was tall, but he wasn’t of broad or imposing stature like Bahorel, so the power behind it came as a surprise more often than not. But Enjolras’ physical competence was undeniable, and one of the cracks in Combeferre’s heart widens for a moment.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Doctor Baudin says. “I truly am.”

“It’s all right,” Enjolras finally answers, his voice almost a whisper. “Well, it’s not, but I appreciate your honesty and that there is hope for progress. But the injury could have been worse, and I am alive, after all. That is decidedly something for which to be thankful.”

 “I truly do believe things will be better in a few months,” the doctor says, genuine. “The pain levels particularly, and some of the stiffness. You will be able to some things that you cannot now, just not everything you once did. I want you to take care of yourself. Understood?”

“Understood,” Enjolras repeats.

Doctor Baudin smiles again, rising. “Now, Grantaire, might you help Enjolras get dressed while I speak to Combeferre for a moment?”

Grantaire nods his assent, and Combeferre follows the doctor out, something hopeful burgeoning in his chest, which feels strange given this bittersweet news.

“You have taken excellent care of your friend,” Doctor Baudin says, gesturing to a set of chairs near the door. “His leg would have been worse without you.”

Combeferre smiles inwardly to himself, thinking how entirely more cooperative Enjolras was about this doctor’s appointment than he’d been that day all these weeks ago when they’d fought about him staying in bed.

_You have grown alarmingly fatalistic?_

_Fatalistic?_

_You are so damned stubborn about your own well-being._

_I know I am. I just…I just don’t want to be weak now, not when I might need to protect the rest of you against Javert, I can’t…I’m sorry Combeferre._

He was decidedly still Enjolras, but he listened now, about his well-being, at the very least to avoid causing his friends more worry, and now to make sure he was able to return to as many normal activities as was possible after his leg healed.

“I only want as much normalcy for him as possible,” Combeferre says. “I know there will always be some pain and weakness on bad days and that things simply cannot be the same, I just… well, you know. I don’t have to explain. Enjolras was very athletic, and I hate seeing those things taken away from him, I keep thinking if there was something more I could have done…”

“Do not go there,” Doctor Baudin says, serious. “You did absolutely everything you could. As I said, after the next six months or so, things will improve as they already have. It will require monitoring and strong limitations, but I do believe he will be able to do some activities he once enjoyed, just not all. A compromise.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says. “You said you received a letter from one of my professors in Paris?”

“I did. From Doctor Armistead,” he pauses. It is the professor Combeferre suspected it might be, the only one who ever knew of his politics, though of course much less about his underground, illegal, revolutionary activities. But still, there is an unspoken understanding between them now, though Combeferre hadn’t expected it from a man he just met. “He recommends you most highly and also tells me you took your final exam just recently in Marseilles?”

“I did.”

Blessedly, Doctor Baudin does not ask why he left Paris. Combeferre knows he must repeat that lie many times over many years, and he is glad today is not one of those days.

“Well I expect you will be hearing soon, and your experience at Necker that he details, as well as seeing the work you have done for your friend, well, I was wondering if you might like to join me here, once you have your credentials?”

Whatever Combeferre was expecting, it wasn’t this, and something like joy swells in his heart.

“Monsieur,” he says, releasing a breath. “Are you… are you certain? You’ve only just met me.”

“Your professor’s words and the fact that your friend is still alive, let alone healing, is a testament to your skill and to your compassion,” Doctor Baudin says. “You also came here for a second opinion, which speaks to your professional humility. I had a partner but unfortunately he departed to be closer to his ill mother, and I have been searching ever since.”

Combeferre stops, turning back to glance at the door behind which Grantaire is helping Enjolras get dressed.

“It will be a few weeks yet before you hear,” Doctor Baudin says, sensing his hesitation. “Though the exam is just a formality at this point. But for the next few months if you’d like to come in for limited hours until Enjolras is well, that would be perfectly suitable. And we can speak further later. I also spend two days a week offering care to the poorer parts of Avignon, most times going to them. I suspect you might like to be a part of that.”

“I would,” Combeferre says, excitement quivering in his voice. “I am almost sure my answer will be yes, but I might like to speak with my friends first? We are, essentially, a family.”

“Of course,” Doctor Baudin answers, standing up as Enjolras and Grantaire emerge, Enjolras’s hand heavy on his cane after the appointment, but there is a fond curiosity in his expression as he gazes at the two of them. “But I look forward to hearing from you.”

“You will,” Combeferre replies, shaking his hand. “Thank you again for seeing us.”

“Yes, thank you monsieur,” Enjolras adds.  

“You are most welcome,” Doctor Baudin answers, handing a piece of paper over to Enjolras. “For more Laudanum, should you need it. And drink that tea, I suggested, Grantaire.”

Combeferre sees Enjolras try very hard to not make a face because he so dislikes the effects of the Laudanum and uses it incredibly sparingly, but he still takes it. But although it helps with the pain, Combeferre cannot blame him for his hesitation. Not after Javert and the near overdose. After a moment they are off and outside. They are scarcely out the door when Grantaire asks the inevitable question.

“Why did he want to speak privately? Does he suspect us?”

“On the contrary, actually. He offered me a job, once I receive my credentials,” Combeferre says without ceremony, rather unable to contain himself. “Partial hours until Enjolras is further along, and going out to the parts of Avignon where people cannot afford care. He is very progressive as well, from what the doctor in Marseilles told me, I’m sure I could learn an incredible amount, it is an unexpected but wonderful opportunity, and he apparently is very into new medicine and studies, a true scientist and my parents will be here in two days’ time they will be so pleased and I…” He stops, watching a grin spread across Enjolras’ face. He’s rambling he realizes, as tends to happen in moments of excitement.

“What? What is it?”

“Only that you sound so like yourself,” Enjolras says. “The last time I heard you so excited you were telling me about the history of the pedestrian curricle a few weeks before the barricade. You should take it. It’s perfect for you.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“Don’t make him wrestle you into it,” Grantaire teases. “You know he will try.”

“I am not sure I could physically wrestle him into it in this state,” Enjolras says, teasing. “Though yes, I would certainly try.” His face falls a bit though his lips curve up as he attempts to keep the smile.

Combeferre stops his stride and so does Grantaire, both looking at Enjolras.

“Are you all right, Enjolras?” Combeferre asks, “That’s a silly question, after today, but…”

Enjolras doesn’t answer immediately, but instead looks up at the two of them, surveying them for a moment as if he feels so much he simply cannot articulate the sentiment in words.

“I will be,” he says, firm. “Much is not the same, and there are adjustments I must make, but in the end, I am still myself.”

“Well that is _certainly_ true,” Grantaire says, raising one eyebrow, teasing. “I saw that paper with hasty words scribbled on it as if you were taking notes for a pamphlet.”

“It is nothing,” Enjolras scoffs, uncharacteristically stumbling over his words, but Combeferre feels his own step lighten just a little. “It is…something about prison reform for…well I thought I might have Valjean look at it…it is…”

“A beginning,” Combeferre finishes for him.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, looking at the city around them. “A beginning indeed.”

 

 

 

 


	40. A Year After the Barricade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to ariadneslostthread for laying the framework of the last section of this chapter! 
> 
> This is the second to last chapter, so only the epilogue to go after this! I can hardly believe that, but I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**June 2 nd, 1833**

Valjean smiles when he hears two familiar voices floating down the stairs, growing louder with each moment, but the affection is clear.

“Rene Enjolras, do you mean to tell me you didn’t allow women in the back room?” Cosette asks, voice going shriller with each word.

“I was not the only decision maker,” Enjolras protests, looking ashamed. “We agreed it would be a distraction.”

“A distraction!” Cosette exclaims. “You say my gender is only a _distraction_ when _you_ are the one who gave me all sorts of political literature written by revolutionary women, when you yourself spoke of how vital the women’s marches were during the Revolution?”

“They absolutely were vital! And obviously I’d act differently now, without a doubt, but if you’d known Joly and Bahorel you’d understand a bit more. It is _not_ an excuse for my being misguided, for all of us being misguided, and yes, undoubtedly sexist. I am sorry for it. But I swear if I heard one more conversation about leather trousers…”

“Leather _what_?” Cosette asks, eyes wide.

“Nothing, nothing,” Enjolras says. “In any case Combeferre had already changed his mind entirely on the subject and I was getting there myself. I learned a great deal from the working women we met with, from Musichetta, from Bahorel’s mistress Adelaide, about the efforts of women’s groups, from my own mother and grandmother. I also admit that I was a bit…afraid.”

“Afraid?” Cosette asks. They are at the bottom of the stairs now, fully in Valjean’s view, and he notices several sheets of paper in Enjolras’ hand, but they show no signs of ceasing. “Afraid of _women_?”

“I…” Enjolras blushes and it makes Cosette laugh because he does it so rarely. “Young women would gaze at me in the street and I was not interested in the romantic pursuits that they obviously were. Courfeyrac used to tease me about the glares I would give them.”

“Well perhaps you should have spoken to them about the cause instead of glaring at them, Enjolras.”

“I am inept at flirtation!” Enjolras exclaims, oddly stuttering. “And also had no interest in it.”

“Enjolras…”

“Cosette, you are making my leg ache,” he complains, leaning obviously harder on his cane, and Valjean covers his mouth to hide his amusement at the two of them.

“Excuse me sir, but _you_ are the one who handed me the incendiary literature!” Cosette says, raising one eyebrow in a rather fantastic impression of Combeferre.

Enjolras smiles, pleased. “I promise you Cosette, the next time a woman attempts to flirt with me in the street that I will divert her to the cause rather than glare. I promise you, some of the best people, the strongest people in my life, are women. Goodness knows my mother, my grandmother, and certainly you taught me that. You deserve equal rights to me. Suffrage, all of that. In fact now that I think of it, Combeferre has some things on women’s suffrage you’d like. And I am learning so much from you. Please believe me.” He looks genuinely concerned now, imploring her, and in this moment, painfully young given all that he’s been through.

At this, Valjean watches Cosette visibly soften, taking Enjolras’ arm and helping him down onto the landing from the last stair, and puts a hand on his cheek.

“Of course I do, don’t be silly,” Cosette says. “Siblings bicker do they not? You have opened your mind further to women’s issues and I to revolution as a tool for change. We are both expanding our horizons.”

“Hmm,” Enjolras says, a fond half-smile on his face now. “I suppose they do bicker. And learn from each other, too.”

“Yes,” Cosette says, glancing over at Valjean. “Well, I will let you speak to Papa. That is after all what you came to do.”

“You’re certain you believe me?”

“Yes, Enjolras,” she says, the affection clear in her tone. “I am quite certain. Stop worrying.”

She dashes over, kissing Valjean on the cheek before darting off to meet Touissant and Madame Bellard in the kitchen, who have promised her more baking lessons, the hem of her light blue dress fluttering behind her. Cosette has become incredibly adept at baking the past few months, along with becoming a burgeoning revolutionary. Valjean looks at Enjolras for a moment, remembering him at the barricade, remembering his intensity, remembering the National Guard’s fear of him, and then thinks of him bickering with Cosette, pleading with her to know just how genuine he was. Burning outrage and gentle, quiet affection all wrapped up in one young man. Valjean smiles, shaking his head.

“What?” Enjolras questions, sensing that Valjean is amused at his expense.

“Nothing,” Valjean answers. “The musings of an old man, do not mind me. You wanted to speak with me?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, sitting down in the chair opposite Valjean, making a small sound of discomfort as he does.

“Your leg is bothering you?”

“A bit,” Enjolras admits. “It has been a great deal better lately, but there are always bad days, as Doctor Baudin tells me. I think my horseback riding expedition with Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and Gavroche aggravated it. It was fine as long as we kept to walking and slow trotting, but it is sore today. I probably pushed too far, knowing myself as I do. I’m supposed to do some exercises with Combeferre and Grantaire when they are home later, so we shall see.”

“Might I say you look rather excited?” Valjean asks. “About something aside from turning my daughter into a rebel?”

“Me?” Enjolras says, placing a hand to his chest in feigned shock. “Never.”

“I can see the years of Courfeyrac rubbing off on you,” Valjean says, chuckling. “What did you give her this time?”

“Just some…Marat,” Enjolras says, pausing before he says the name. “I admit I had been thinking on it, he’s long been a favorite of mine in particular during recent years, recommended by Courfeyrac, and then I confess, Courfeyrac dared me.”

“Ah,” Valjean says, feeling a spike of joy at the antics of all these boys he now considers his sons. “Well, one cannot back down from a dare. Of course.”

Enjolras laughs, a soft, happy sound, and it warms Valjean to the tips of his toes. The winter was hard on Enjolras’ leg, the pain worsening on the coldest days even as it healed. They’d all been cooped up inside, but Enjolras even more so as the others began lives in Avignon at his insistence and encouragement. Valjean made it his business to spend as much time with Enjolras as he could while the younger man healed and made it through the hardest months of the year. His constitution was weakened from the infection, and he’d caught a nasty head cold in January, and then again in March, and for the first time, didn’t argue with Combeferre’s firm instruction to stay in bed. But now as the temperatures warm, as the pain lessens, Enjolras seems more fully like the person he was before the barricades, a person Valjean is intensely interested in knowing. He’s seen pieces of course, but they’d all been so caught up that the past few months of peace, of trying to start a new life while also grieving the past, have been telling for them all. There is color in Enjolras’ cheeks now, and he is less frightfully pale, his energy holding out for much longer. Valjean can see it in the simple bounce in step. He feels better in more ways than one.

Valjean considers all the changes of the past months, the lives they’ve all begun here together. Enjolras and now Feuilly give twice weekly lessons to a group of gamin children, Combeferre works several days a week with Doctor Baudin, Courfeyrac and Marius have begun work at a law firm that does a good bit of free legal counsel for the poorer inhabitants of Avignon, the man in charge a good friend of Doctor Baudin, as it would happen. Grantaire has started painting advertising posters for some of the smaller businesses in Avignon at low prices so that it might be affordable for them, taking over from Feuilly at the original shop where he’d done work. Feuilly also does some writing for one of the smaller local newspapers, something the others long encouraged him to do. Gavroche, growing used to his new life and flourishing under Enjolras’ tutelage, is even more intelligent than Valjean realized and has now latched onto learning science from Combeferre and history from Feuilly.

Valjean has slowly found it safe enough to allow Enjolras out into Avignon on semi-regular occasions as the whispers of the rebellion die down, and Enjolras’ health has sometimes allowed him to attend town gatherings and meetings, which lit up his eyes so much that Valjean cannot let his own worry deny the boy’s unquenchable spirit. Besides, Enjolras’ ability to be discreet and careful rivals Valjean’s own. One does not function as the leader of a revolutionary society and come away without those skills. At one meeting Enjolras started speaking to the mayor himself rather on accident, and engaged him for a solid hour. It was something to do with workers’ wages, and Valjean watched on as the man who turned out to be the mayor listened intently to Enjolras, adding in his own comments that Valjean could not quite hear. It was the first time Enjolras had introduced himself as Rene Fauchelevent, and Valjean was certain from the mayor’s interested smile that he would remember the name.

“In any case, Feuilly and I have been discussing something,” Enjolras says, his eyes alight. “As you know, our small group of gamins or otherwise poor children has grown to about 15. You also know that given my…strange circumstances, my father essentially gave me most of my monetary inheritance now. So we have been thinking about possibly securing rooms in Avignon to gather the children a few times a week? Possibly advertise and expand. Feuilly saw some rooms for leasing near the bakery where Grantaire draws the ads for Madame Bellamy.” He stops, looking at Valjean for signs of approval before he continues.

“I think that’s a splendid idea,” Valjean says. “Have you mentioned it to Gavroche?”

“We were going to today, after the session. I think he’ll be pleased. He’s the reason this all started in the first place, after all. He’s so enthralled to learn. He simply collects children he senses are like him, takes them under his wing. And though not as large as Paris, Avignon has its own large share of poor children, and they should all have the right to learn. Reading…education, it opens up everything.” Valjean watches the intensity grow in Enjolras’ eyes, sparks of feeling illuminating the light blue. “Lack of access to universal education prevents people from having freedom of thought, and it is one of the greatest tools of the oppressors. Perhaps I cannot build barricades right now, but I can do this.”

Valjean meets his eyes, waits a moment, and then puts both of his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, his touch brimming with affection.

“You absolutely can,” Valjean says, voice low but resonating with reassurance. “And you and Feuilly would make an excellent pair doing this, of that I am certain.”

Enjolras smiles, biting his lip. “Feuilly in particular would be so apt at this. And Combeferre has already recommended some books, Courfeyrac has asked if he might lend some money to the supplies, and Grantaire wishes to draw up the advertising.” Enjolras pauses before his next statement. “I also think it will help us ascertain the politics in Avignon in conjunction with my attending the town meetings. I know…I know it cannot be exactly as before given the world thinks I’m dead and the dangers of that, but I admit…I cannot stay away. I will, however, swear to you that I will be absolutely careful. I will not put this house in danger.”

“I know,” Valjean says, but he smiles despite the small spikes of inevitable concern. “Might that have something to do with the papers in your hand?”

Enjolras nods, handing them over, silent as Valjean peruses the first few sentences. As he does, Valjean feels a wave of emotion slap against his chest, and it’s a few moments before he can gather his words.

“Prison reform?” he manages to say, his voice shakier than he’d like.

“I hope I’m not overstepping…”

“No,” Valjean says. “No, not at all, I’m simply touched. Might I…”

“Of course,” Enjolras says waving his hand in a gesture of assent. “Let me know what you think.”

Valjean’s eyes run over the first few sentences, and despite himself, he feels wetness gathering around the edges. For all the years he pent up his emotions, in the last few months he’s felt them all rising to the surface, long neglected. He stops at a particular line, feeling the breath hitch in his chest:

_Who are we, as a society when we inflict horrific punishment on those who need our help the most? On the destitute men and women whose loved ones will starve to death if they do not steal? What choice do we give them? Years of hard labor in the galleys or the eternal suffering of their loved ones? How is that a choice? What lives are we snuffing out? What potential? These people have no voice and we have no kindness. Where is our empathy? Where is our rage at the idea that we are destroying members of our society under a crushing weight that they cannot lift?_

Valjean runs the back of his hand over his eyes before looking up, and Enjolras, bless him, doesn’t comment.

“Might I keep this until tomorrow to read over?” Valjean asks.

“Of course,” Enjolras says. “I’d appreciate any input you have.”

“You wrote this?”

“A good chunk of it, yes. I’ve had the time and the energy lately, and this, well…it’s one of the worthiest things I could think to write on. Courfeyrac added bits as well. And Feuilly and Combeferre did some editing. Grantaire has even promised to do some art for it.”

“You write so well,” Valjean says, trying to regain control of his feeling.

“I have always loved to write,” Enjolras says. “It is like bleeding out onto the page, as Prouvaire might have said. He made my writing better, always. He was an incredible talent. Would that I could have one of his notebooks…”

Enjolras trails off, the memories solid in how tremulous his voice is.

“I would have loved to have known him, from how you speak of him,” Valjean says. “But I can tell his spirit rests in these words. I…I am touched, my boy. Truly.”

“You have saved us,” Enjolras says, tentatively reaching out a hand, silently asking Valjean to take it. Valjean does, pleased at feeling how warm Enjolras’ skin is when it has been so cold for months. “We would be dead if not for you. You have showered your immense, incredible kindness upon us, given us a home and a family when we had nearly lost everything. You have become so important to all of us. Feuilly was just speaking the other day of how ardently he admires you, and I…” Enjolras looks up, and when Valjean sees the wetness around his eyes that he blinks back, his own eyes moisten again. “You are like another father to me. And you have overcome so much, made so much out of your life. It is utterly remarkable and we are proud to be a part of it.”

_We love you,_ is what Enjolras doesn’t say, but Valjean knows it’s what he means from the tenderness wrapped around his words, and before he’s even quite thought about it, he lets go of Enjolras’ hand and pulls his chair forward, leaning over to embrace the younger man, who returns it instantly. Valjean will never forget the day Cosette broke open his heart, sending such love through him that he could scarcely catch his breath, and he’d never foreseen having even more of that kind of love in his life. But these boys, Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Grantaire, Marius, Gavroche…they have opened his heart even further.

After a moment they break apart, but Valjean keeps hold of one of Enjolras’ hands, the pamphlet still resting in the other.

“I am so pleased you liked what you’ve read so far,” Enjolras says. “I was thinking of you, and thinking of this quote from Marat, when he said ‘what will we have gained by destroying the aristocracy of nobility, if it is simply replaced by an aristocracy of wealth?’ He opened my eyes a great deal, as did my friends, of the need for social equality, because without it, what meaning does political and legal equality have? If people are too poor and too destitute to even live their lives or make themselves heard? We need these things in reality, not just in name.”

“I agree,” Valjean says. “Without question. Truth be told, I have started reading the books you’ve leant Cosette. Combeferre actually leant me some of Desmoulins work just yesterday.”

“It is incredible to think we had democracy in our grasp in your very lifetime, Valjean,” Enjolras says, wistful, that familiar intensity radiating off him. “Then we lost it. I simply…”

He is interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing, and Valjean doesn’t miss Enjolras flinching at the loud, sudden sound. All the boys flinch or jump at loud sounds, and Valjean has no doubt it’s a remnant of the trauma of the barricade. Just the other day he’d sat with Courfeyrac for a few moments after a loud crash in the kitchen, helping him calm down on a particularly vulnerable day. He’s heard similar things about soldiers returning from war, and these young men are certainly soldiers, but their battle was in their own streets instead of in some far off country. After a moment Feuilly appears with Javert in tow, who comes now once or twice a week to play chess with Valjean.

“I ran into Javert at the door,” Feuilly says. “I told him it was all right to come in, I hope that’s fine.” There’s a question in his voice, protective as he still is of Enjolras. Javert has become an odd, frequent fixture in their lives, but the process of the various boys and Cosette acclimating to him has been slow and varied according to each person. Not that Valjean could expect anything else, given the circumstances.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, rising from his chair. Valjean hands him his cane, noticing Javert quietly watching him, the usual curiosity in his eyes, and if Valjean is not mistaken, a flicker of concern when Enjolras winces as he gains the correct balance. “I was just coming to wait outside for you. Hello, Javert.”

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras considers him, eyes examining his face as Javert tenses a bit under the younger man’s gaze, but doesn’t look away even if he definitely wants to. “You look well,” Enjolras says after a moment. And Javert does look better than he has these past months, Valjean thinks. And far better than he had the day he’d shown up to arrest Enjolras, madness shattering any semblance of reason. The bags under his eyes are less pronounced, and he stands a bit taller, straight, as Valjean remembers him, though there is an invisible weight on this shoulders, as if he’s carrying his burden around with him.

“Thank you,” Javert replies after a pause, clearly unsure of how to respond, but responding politely rather than with his usual sarcasm. “Are you off somewhere?”

“Feuilly and I have reading lessons to give,” Enjolras answers, gesturing to the bag on his shoulder. “To some local children Gavroche has befriended.”

“An endeavor, I’m sure,” Javert says in response.

“Ready then, Enjolras?” Feuilly asks. “Gavroche is waiting for us outside, and the carriage will probably be out in a few minutes.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, eyes bright with an excitement Valjean is pleased to see and that Javert doesn’t miss, his new activities an active balm after the wounds inflicted on the barricade. He turns once more, something occurring to him. “I forgot to mention, Valjean, I received a letter from my mother this morning that Combeferre brought me on his way out. They were wondering if they might come visit in a few weeks? My father and grandmother also.”

“Of course,” Valjean says without hesitation. “They are always welcome.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says with a nod. “Well, we will see you later.”

“Don’t let your chess muscles get too tired, Valjean,” Feuilly says, taking Enjolras’ bag of books silently from him so that he won’t have the extra weight as he walks, and Enjolras doesn’t argue with him. “You did promise me another lesson tonight.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Valjean says, smiling. “That is our Thursday evening tradition, after all.”

The two of them wave once more, and once the door closes Valjean and Javert are left alone. Valjean watches Javert’s eyes trail after Enjolras as he walks out the door, his limp visible but his stride still quick for someone using a cane. He waits a moment, then speaks.

“You are fond of him,” Valjean says, keeping his tone even, not wanting to prod Javert’s emotions too far.

Javert glares at him, but it is far less potent than it once was. His hands are clasped behind his back, but Valjean notices one of his eyes twitching, a crack in his façade of being entirely put together. He is _more_ put together certainly, than he’d been last year, but he has an entire lifetime of things he’s trying to undo.

“For Godsakes Valjean,” he snaps. “Be quiet. He doesn’t annoy me, I suppose.”

“Practically a declaration of affection.”

“Hardly,” Javert says, but he doesn’t protest further. “Just bring out the chessboard all right? I’m not in the mood for your teasing.”

“Are you ever in the mood for my teasing?”

“Valjean.”

Valjean does as asked, but it’s not a full thirty seconds before Javert speaks again.

“Seems I came in upon some kind of tender moment.” His tone is curious rather than mocking.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about this?”

Javert huffs. “You are the most frustrating man on earth,” he grumbles.

“Oh I’m not certain _that’s_ true,” Valjean says, dead-pan as he looks Javert in the eye.

“Fine,” Javert says, setting up his pieces after Valjean lays out the board. “But what were you speaking about? The boy looked….well he looked happy and melancholy all at once.”

Valjean is quiet for a moment, thinking of how to phrase many of the yet unspoken emotions building up in the household. He will not mention the prison reform pamphlet to Javert for a myriad of reasons, not least of which is that he does not yet trust himself to speak about it without losing his composure. And as much as he trusts Javert will not report them, he still does not feel comfortable sharing that piece of information. He thinks of how quiet the house has been lately, a blanket of anxious grief overtaking the usual racket of a group of people settling into being a family and settling into a life.

He thinks of the fact that a year ago he couldn’t have imagined that soon, he’d be inviting an entire gaggle of new people into his tiny family with Cosette, how two decades ago he’d felt like his life was a war he couldn’t win. Yet now, no matter the hardships they all face, he feels like he _is_ winning. Like they all are. Together.

“In a few days it will have been nearly a year since the barricade fell,” Valjean says. “I’m sure that day will always be a hard one for those boys, but the first one, well…there’s nothing quite like the first of anything. Besides that, Enjolras is thinking of purchasing a bit of space in Avignon to expand the lessons he and Feuilly are teaching some of the children around the area. Get some proper supplies, have a small school of some type, I suppose you’d call it. Reading, writing, basic mathematics, that sort of thing. The gamin population here is large, and Gavroche is excellent at finding them.”

Like the pamphlet, Valjean doesn’t mention Enjolras’ attendance at town meetings and his attempts at ascertaining the political atmosphere. As much progress as Javert has made, he is not certain Javert will understand this, and it means too much to Enjolras, to all of these young men, to even bring about the semblance of risk.

“You aren’t worried about the danger of that being too high a profile?” Javert asks, contemplating his pieces.

“You _are_ worried about him,” Valjean says, but he’s serious this time.

“ _You_ are insufferable,” Javert replies, evading. “Lest you forget, if they find out he’s alive, I will also be the one paying the price. And so will you.”

Javert doesn’t say he _should_ pay the price for allowing not one, but two fugitives to go free, and that, Valjean knows, is a massive step.

“And yet here you are again,” Valjean answers. “And I am a bit worried, but people think him dead, and nearly a year has passed. We are outside Paris. It is a difficult situation, but no one is searching. And I will not keep him cooped up here, I cannot do that to him. We are careful.”

“No,” Javert says, an odd sound to his voice. “I suppose they aren’t looking. Do their families come often?”

“Fairly,” Valjean says, considering his move. “The Enjolrases have come several times, and the Courfeyracs, as they are not terribly far. Grantaire’s sister has come. In fact she’s thinking of moving to Avignon with her husband. Combeferre’s parents have come twice. They all seem to know they are welcome and they are lovely people.”

“And do they know about you?”

“No,” Valjean says, but does not elaborate.

“You do not trust them?” Javert asks, unable to let it go.

“It is less about that and more about the burden it would place upon them,” Valjean says, and it’s true. “It is also safer, if less people know generally. Though I have considered telling Flora and Aubry Enjolras. Perhaps.”

Both men fall silent, and Valjean considers Javert while the other man isn’t looking at him, thinking of how ludicrous it is that the man who once would have given anything to arrest him now sits across, playing a game of chess.

“How is the part-time police work going in Avignon?” Valjean asks, changing the subject.

“It is mostly frustrating paperwork,” Javert admits. “But it saves me from boredom. How do people sit around with nothing to occupy them?”

“Well,” Valjean says. “Some people have hobbies, I expect. Reading, gardening, playing an instrument, but….”

Javert glares at him again, and Valjean lets it go. He can scarcely imagine Javert gardening, besides.

“So just paperwork, then?”

“No,” Javert says. “I do patrols once a week.” He stops, studying Valjean’s face, and there again is that odd softness Valjean has seen and Enjolras and Cosette have both mentioned, emerging beneath the stone mask he usually wears.

“I convinced my patrol partner against sending a group of adolescent young men to jail for six months after they were caught stealing from a cart,” Javert continues. “Convinced him down to two, using the argument that it was their first offense. Your fault, I’m sure.”

Valjean cannot help it. He smiles. He wishes there was not a punishment for stealing food, or rather a society in which people did not have to steal food, but that is not the case at present, and the former Inspector Javert speaking on behalf of those who flout the law? It’s nothing short of a miracle. It is also, Valjean knows, a penance.

“Stop smiling, Valjean, it is incredibly grating.”

“Never,” Valjean says, and as he looks up, just for a moment, he swears there is a flicker of a smile on Javert’s own lips.

“Move your damn piece.”

Valjean does, and a few minutes later, much to the surprise of both of them, Javert calls checkmate.

It’s the first time in the months they’ve been playing that Javert has ever won, and when Valjean looks at him again, the smile on Javert’s face remains, though he has to admit, it looks strange. Valjean meets his eye and the smile stays, but after a moment Javert rolls his eyes and shakes his head, and it vanishes.

“Set up the board, Valjean,” Javert snaps. “Stop looking at me like that. I will never be as nice as you are, so stop hoping for it.”

Valjean laughs, unable to contain himself. “You are nicer than you think, Javert.”

“Bite your tongue.”

Valjean sets the board up again, and Javert watches him as he moves his piece forward, and there’s something in his eyes that he will never be able to voice but that Valjean knows he means nonetheless.

_Thank you._

* * *

_“Enjolras, help me!”_

_Enjolras whips around at the sound of Joly’s voice, right hand grasping the remaining stump of his gun, and Combeferre is nowhere near to hand him another._

_“Joly!” Enjolras shouts, voice cracking with desperation. “Joly!”_

_Finally he spots his friend near the front of the barricade, splayed across the paving stones, blood pouring from a wound in his side. Enjolras runs, pushing past others and nearly tripping over a cracked stone in his haste to reach Joly._

_“It’s all right Joly, it’s all right,” Enjolras lies, kneeling down beside his friend. His wipes his hands on his pants, blood and sweat streaking the black material._

_“Bossuet is dead,” Joly says, tears pooling in his eyes._

_“I know,” Enjolras replies, untying his tri-color sash and wrapping it around Joly, trying to stem the flow, trying with all his might to steady his voice. “I know.”_

_“You can’t stop it,” Joly says, voice growing quieter. “I am not long for this world, I fear.” Somehow, Enjolras notices, Joly’s cockade, though crumpled, has survived the battle, unmarred by blood or dirt._

_“Joly, no, I can…”_

_“Just sit with me, Enjolras,” Joly says, grasping Enjolras’ hand and smearing it with red again. Enjolras’ holds tight to it, interlacing his fingers with Joly’s. “Please. I swore to go through fire, and I always knew the fire might be the end of me. I don’t regret it. I couldn’t. And don’t you dare start feeling guilty, do you hear me? We are all here because we shared the same dream and we wanted you as our leader.”_

_Enjolras does as asked, placing Joly’s head in his lap, the gunshots firing around them, smoke in their eyes and soot on their skin._

_“You will make a difference, Enjolras,” Joly says, voice hoarse now. “You will.”_

_“I am not sure I will make it out of this barricade,” Enjolras says, tears gathering on his lashes, because he would give his life a thousand times to keep Joly’s smile in this world. A smile that eases his patients’ nerves, a smile that spreads into a grin and a laugh and a shout of joy at a joke. “I am not sure how to make it out of here without you.”_

_“You will,” Joly says, firm. “Do not argue with me. You are so stubborn.” He tries to narrow his eyes in an effort at chiding, but his tone inevitably gives away his fondness. “Like that time you broke two of your ribs.”_

_“So stubborn,” Enjolras says, fingers running through Joly’s sweat-dampened hair as the memory plays in his head. “I know. Joly I…”_

_But he does not get to finish._

_Joly smiles a final time before the scene morphs in a whirl of color and noise._

_He stands on the top floor of the café now, the fighting below him a messy cloud of movement and sound that grows sharper in his ears with each second._

_“Enjolras.”_

_He turns at the sound of Bossuet’s voice, his heart pounding so hard against his chest he’s certain it will bruise the bone._

_“Bossuet…you….you’re dead.”_

_“So I am,” Bossuet says, pointing at the bullet hole near his heart, at a second one in his shoulder, at the pieces of wood lodged in his skin from parts of the barricade being blown back. “But you aren’t and that’s what matters right now. We are with you, even still. Don’t forget that.”_

_Bossuet leans on the doorframe as he’d done so often before, running a hand over his bald head with a soft smile despite the fact that he’s caked in blood._

_“I wouldn’t,” Enjolras says, reaching out toward Bossuet, but unlike Joly just moments before, he isn’t solid and Enjolras’ hand goes straight through. “I couldn’t.” He stops, watching Bossuet’s smile spread. “What are you smiling at?”_

_“You,” Bossuet says, reaching out to touch Enjolras’ shoulder, and somehow, he is able. “You never give up on anything. On our cause. On us.”_

_“I…I don’t think I know how.”_

_“Good,” Bossuet says. “So. Come here often?” he asks, spreading his arms wide at the room around them, the sounds of the battle raging below them coming in through the window. It’s a joke mixed with concern all at once, as is usual with Bossuet._

_“All the time,” Enjolras says, wistful. “More often, lately.”_

_“It will always be here, I imagine,” Bossuet says, uncharacteristically melancholy as he squeezes Enjolras’ shoulder. “But we are not trapped here, Enjolras. We are more than how we ended.”_

_“Yes,” Enjolras says, hand trying to touch Bossuet’s once more, and this time, it works. “You are everything we love.”_

_The scene changes once more, and Enjolras feels dizzy from the sudden movement, his insides churning and splashing so violently he fears he might be sick._

_He’s at the back of the barricade now, inexplicably watching another version of himself swing around and kick a National Guardsman in the chest before he can bayonet Combeferre, sending him sliding across the stones. The other him disappears in a hazy smoke, and he’s utterly confused until he hears Bahorel’s voice._

_“I taught you well,” he says, that particular grin on his face, arms crossed in a gesture of satisfaction. “Look at that kick.”_

_Enjolras is certain it wasn’t there before, but his cane is in his hand now, a pain exploding in his thigh causing him to fall, knees hitting the ground. He looks down, gritting his teeth._

_“I’m bleeding,” he says, the spot of blood on his pants spreading and growing larger._

_“Yes, I expect you are,” Bahorel says, crouching down next to him and putting his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, oddly soft. “I expect part of you always will.” There’s a rare sadness in Bahorel’s eyes, mixing with the usual spark of mischief and fun. But there’s determination also. “But you do some of your best work when you are bleeding, do you not? Perhaps less literal bleeding, but…you know what I mean.”_

_Enjolras does, but he feels frustration building up in him so much that he feels he might burst._

_“That bullet wasted everything you ever taught me,” he says, hating the bitterness in his voice. “I do not regret it, I could never regret saving my friends from injury, but I wish my leg was as before, I wish…”_

_Bahorel’s hands grasp Enjolras’ shoulders tighter, and he’s perhaps more serious than Enjolras can ever recall seeing him. There’s that air of an older brother he brought out as needed in life, and it’s here now, in death._

_“It has not gone to waste,” he says. “Enjolras, you look at me.”_

_Enjolras does, and there is fire in Bahorel’s eyes._

_“Imagine the difference in your strength, in what you’d be able to do right now had I never taught you. You’d be worse off. And your shoulder has healed. Besides, you should learn some new tricks with that cane. Talk to Grantaire, I bet he knows a few things. Hell, you already know some things!”_

_Enjolras nods in assent. Both things are true._

_“Feuilly would hate your waistcoat,” Enjolras says, eyeing the red and green striped monstrosity complete with gold buttons._

_“Wouldn’t he just though?” Bahorel says, fond. “He would probably roll his eyes and then try not to smile at my excellent find.”_

_Bahorel winks, and Enjolras laughs, a small sob marring the sound, but he laughs until his ribs hurt anyway, Bahorel’s own laughter joining with his until the scene changes again, the bright red and green of Bahorel’s waistcoat gone in a swirl of color._

_Now he’s at the summit of the barricade itself, sitting next to Jean Prouvaire. The red flag he planted waves in the wind, tattered but proud. But instead of gunshot and screaming and smoke, there is silence, deafening, absolute, silence. Prouvaire writes furiously in a notebook, his shirt dotted with red where the bullet struck his heart, but otherwise he is clean. He does not look up yet, so Enjolras gives him a moment. He looks down at his own hands, which are devoid of blood or soot or sweat. A bubble of grief pushes up, and he puts his head in his trembling hands, trying to manage his emotions._

_“Oh, my chief,” Prouvaire finally says. “Won’t you just cry? It does a person good.”_

_Enjolras looks up, met with Prouvaire’s gentle half-smile._

_“I…”_

_But before he can complete his sentence Prouvaire throws his arms around Enjolras, enveloping him in the warmest, safest embrace he thinks he’s ever felt. He feels tears fall from his eyes, seemingly brought out by Jehan’s embrace. Given the moisture on his jacket, the red jacket Courfeyrac gave him, he knows Jehan is crying too._

_“Your logic is one of your greatest tools,” Prouvaire says. “But your emotions are the incredible power behind it. Do not forget that.”_

_“I won’t,” Enjolras says. “You taught me the value of my emotions, of all of our emotions, more than anyone else. I am always trying to remember.”_

_Knowing Jehan won’t mind, and perhaps fully letting go, Enjolras buries his head further into his friend’s shoulder, hearing the sharp, ragged sobs coming from his own mouth._

_It is a relief. Some of the tension leaves him and his body feels weak, so even when Jehan pulls back, he keeps a hold of Enjolras’ shoulders, meeting his eyes._

_“This is so messy, and so hard,” he says, touching the side of Enjolras’ face with his hand, which is, to Enjolras’ surprise, warm. “But you are doing beautifully.”_

_“I am trying. We are all trying. Without the others, I…well I would be with you, I expect.”_

_“A family by force of friendship,” Jehan says with a smile. “Now with a few new members.”_

_Jehan stands up, offering his hand. Enjolras takes it, looking out at the sight before him. Their barricade is higher than he realized, and it offers them an eagle’s eye view of Paris, littered with other barricades, smoking from gunfire and spattered with blood, but up on the horizon is another barricade, the sun rising behind it and covering it in splashes of golden-red light. There are people on every inch of it, cheering and speaking words Enjolras cannot quite make out, but does here these three:_

_“Vive la France!”_

_“The future,” Jehan says, clasping both of Enjolras’ hands as though he is placing something within them. “Tell it I said hello. Tell everyone I said hello.”_

_There it is again, the world whirling in front of him, and as Prouvaire becomes nothing but a mass of color spinning away, Enjolras feels the breath grow shallow in his chest, feeling something pulling him away from the barricade and away from his friends._

_“No,” he says. “Please. Not…just one more minute.”_

_The next few seconds are a whirpool of black and white memory with splashes of color. Le Cabuc is there, Enjolras’ silver gun to his head, and he hears the shot ringing in his ears. The artillery sergeant comes next, dots of red marring the black and white scene around him. There’s Jean Prouvaire falling in front of him, the blue of his waistcoat bright against the pale, colorless background. He feels the bullets hit his shoulder and his leg, hot, agonizing metal ripping through his skin. Gunshots. Smoke. Blood. The orange glow of the sunrise over the barricade, filling him up to the brim with such feeling that he cannot describe even as grief strikes a hard blow across his face. It is his sublime dream and his nightmare all in one._

_His own words ring in his head as the scene before him dissolves. Black. White. Gray. Red._

_Harmony. Concord. Light. Joy. Life._

 “Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to leave the dream just yet on the chance his friends will interrupt and return to speak to him again. “Enjolras,” Courfeyrac pleads, a crack in his voice. “Please wake up.”

Enjolras’ eyes fly open, drawn back into the waking world by the desperation in his friend’s voice. His friend who is still here with him.

“Courfeyrac,” he says, voice hoarse with sleep. “What are you doing in here?”

“I…” Courfeyrac stops, looking sheepish. “I couldn’t sleep, and I was roaming the halls, and I heard you…I thought I heard you talking and…crying.”

For once, and despite his natural inclination, Enjolras chooses not to feel embarrassed. This is Courfeyrac, and he was roaming the halls for the same reason Enjolras was dreaming.

“Tomorrow…” Enjolras glances at the clock. “Well, today, I suppose is…”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says, not needing him to finish the sentence. “Were you dreaming about them? About the barricade?”

“I was dreaming about them, yes,” Enjolras answers. “And the barricade, in part. But not how the barricade happened, like so many times before. They just felt so real. I cannot believe it has been a year to the day since it fell. June 6th.”

“They are real,” Courfeyrac says with a sad smile. “They are simply not physically here.”

He wraps an arm around Enjolras’ waist for a moment, and in turn, Enjolras rests his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. They remain that way for a few minutes, simply content to listen to each other breathe in light of death being on both their minds this year to the day after their barricade fell. June 5th and 6th, Enjolras thinks, will always be dates that are imprinted onto his very soul.

“Are you going into the office tomorrow?” Enjolras asks.

“No,” Courfeyrac says. “None of us are.” He pauses for a moment. “Perhaps we could go see if Combeferre is awake? Something tells me he is.”

 “Yes,” Enjolras says, feeling some of the heaviness of the dream leave him as he stands with Courfeyrac, arms still linked. “Let’s go see. Hand me my cane?”

Courfeyrac does, picking it up from where it leans against the end of the bed, and the pair of them walk down the hallway toward Combeferre’s room. The door is closed, but the light is visible under the door.

“No, that’s not it,” Enjolras hears Combeferre’s voice mutter, clearly indicating he’s awake. “No, that’s not it _either_.”

Courfeyrac glances over, tilting his head in confusion, but knocking anyway.

“Ah!” they hear Combeferre exclaim, and there’s the sound of books being knocked to the floor. “Yes....I…come in.”

Courfeyrac opens the door, gesturing Enjolras in before him, and they are met with a very ruffled looking Combeferre. His hair looks as if he’s run his hands through it hundreds of times, books piled everywhere and some scribbled writing in front on him, glasses perched crooked on his nose. Ink covers his hands, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

“Oh,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased to see them. “Sorry to startle you. I couldn’t sleep so I’ve been reading about…let’s see…” he looks down at his pile of books, scanning them. “Hmmm the evolution of transportation in Europe, there’s some medical texts here, and oh, a book on economics! I’d quite forgotten about that one, I finished it hours ago.”

Enjolras is concerned, but not alarmed, because this is not the first time he’s seen Combeferre in this state. It happened all the time when he was reading about something new, and for all the chiding Combeferre gave him about not sleeping enough, Enjolras gave him the same in turn when he got hyperfocused in this way. He is worried right now, however, because he suspects it serves as a distraction from the inevitable emotions surrounding this day, and the shakiness in Combeferre’s voice betrays him. Courfeyrac puts a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder, which ceases Combeferre’s fiddling with the pens and papers on his desk. It’s then that he looks down at his hands.

He jumps back, staring at the ink on his hands, eyes widening, breath quickening, and Enjolras knows immediately what he’s thinking. It’s so vivid that he can almost see the black ink turn red and trickle down his friend’s skin himself. He sits, and very slowly takes Combeferre’s hands, gentle as Combeferre tries unsuccessfully to pull them back. Combeferre’s breaths slow after a few seconds and he closes his eyes. Enjolras holds his hands tighter, tugging and pulling Combeferre closer to him, pulling him back out of the barricade as Combeferre has so often pulled him. Combeferre opens his eyes again, gaze focusing on the two friends in front of him, looking less distant than before.

“I thought…”

“I know,” Enjolras says, gentle. “I know.”

“Come back to us,” Courfeyrac says, repeating the words they’ve all used countless times with each other over the past year.

Combeferre nods, letting go of one of Enjolras’ hands and reaching out for Courfeyrac’s. After a moment they’re all three joined together, hands clasped.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Combeferre says. “Today…and I just…well, you know me. I don’t need to explain.”

He lets go of their hands, removing his glasses so he can wipe his eyes, but he takes them back almost instantly.

“You are up for the same reason, I imagine?” he asks, gaze switching back and forth between them.

“I was up walking the halls,” Courfeyrac says, his thumb running back and forth absentmindedly over the top of Combeferre’s hand. “And I heard Enjolras speaking in his sleep and he sounded distressed, so I checked in on him.”

Combeferre looks over at Enjolras now, worried, not missing the slight redness around the edges of Enjolras’ eyes.

“I thought the nightmares were better?”

“They were,” Enjolras says, truthful. “But today is what it is. They’ve been coming back this week. And, well, only part of it was nightmarish…I just…when I see them in dreams they’re so real. That’s the hardest part. It’s like bidding them farewell every time. Again and again. Yet when I wake up, they’re still here, in part.”

“They always will be,” Combeferre says, echoing Bahorel’s earlier words from Enjolras’ dream.

There’s another knock at the door, and at Combeferre’s response, Feuilly and Grantaire come in.

“I thought I heard something being knocked to the floor,” Feuilly says, gesturing with his thumb to his room next door. “And then I ran into Grantaire in the hallway. Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” Combeferre answers, indicating that they should sit down. “I was startled and knocked over some books. I was…distracted.”

There’s no need for Feuilly and Grantaire to ask questions because they already know the answers. It’s quiet for a few minutes, each of them lost in their own heads until Feuilly speaks up.

“I was dreaming about Joly,” he offers, a bittersweet half-smile on his lips. “He’d found a box of cats on the street and I think he was trying to get me to take one.”

“Sounds like Joly,” Grantaire says, voice a bit gruff to mask what Enjolras suspects are tears. “Possibly you were having a vision of him from the afterlife, instead. I’m sure he managed to find all the stray cats there, too.”

They all laugh at this, and the joy cuts through the grief in Enjolras’ heart, leaving him feeling both heavy and light all at once. Whatever he expected to feel today, he’s sure he feels it more powerfully than he thought he would. Sometimes he wishes he could box up his emotions and feel them one a time instead of this confusing, overwhelming, wave that feels like it will burst out of him from within as it crashes down. But that, he supposes, is what makes one human. The ability to feel so many things at once. And perhaps also the ability to make something out of that. They are, he thinks. They are making something. They are helping people. They will help more. He looks at each of his friends in turn, thinking of the ways the barricade has affected each of them. Feuilly no longer does well being touched without someone first announcing their presence, because it startles him. Grantaire sometimes sees shadows out of the corner of his eye, jumping slightly and shaking his head when it occurs. Courfeyrac struggles more than any of them with loud noises, gasping when a door slams or something crashes. The first time Combeferre encountered a large amount of blood in his work for Doctor Baudin, he’d kept control while with the patient, but he’d come home drawn and silent until he was alone with Enjolras, and it had been a solid half hour before Enjolras could cease his friend’s shaking. His own most prevalent issue is the nightmares, so real and vivid it takes a few minutes upon awakening to separate truth from reality. These reactions grow less violent as time passes, but Enjolras knows they will, in some way, stay with them for a very long time.

“Enjolras,” Feuilly exclaims suddenly. “You were busy when I got home and it slipped my mind to tell you, but I think I may have found a printer for that pamphlet. Possibly for more in the future if you continue writing them.”

Enjolras feels an upswing of almost giddy danger fill his chest, a rush he has not felt in months that flows through his bloodstream.

“Where?” Enjolras asks, looking up at Feuilly.

“Madame Bellamy’s brother has a small press and is secret republican,” Feuilly explains, and Enjolras feels that same rush of danger fill the space between all of them, the sense that here in this darkened room in the middle of the night, something is happening. As if the spirts of their friends are drawing them back toward the root of their bonds. There is tentative, apprehensive excitement in all their eyes, including Grantaire’s. A rush of purpose. “And he only asks a small price.”

“I would pay him the world,” Enjolras says, breathless. “Thank you, Feuilly.”

“What name will you publish them under?” Grantaire asks. “Rene Fauchelevant?”

“No,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t mind it, but I do not want to endanger Cosette or Valjean in that way. Perhaps one day I might be able to publish under that name, but for now, it must be something else. I’m just beginning to know people in Avignon, understanding how the politics operate here and getting involved, so a pseudonym is best for now on that level also.”

“You could simply sign it ‘A.B.C.’ as if they were initials,” Courfeyrac suggests. “It will leave people forever trying to figure out to whom they belong, and it is also a tribute to our friends. To all of us and our lives in Paris flowing on to this new place.”

Enjolras smiles, wide this time, that familiar feeling of joy and grief mingling once again in the pit of his stomach and flooding into his chest.

“Yes,” he says, voice trembling with intensity. “That’s perfect, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac does a half bow from his seat.

“I do not, alas, have a hat,” he says. “Otherwise that would have been better.”

“Perhaps we should go check and see if Marius and Gavroche are awake as well?” Combeferre suggests. “I am sure they are sharing our thoughts.”

“We should. Soon,” Enjolras says with a nod. “But for now, might we just…I….?” For once, he cannot find words. But Combeferre squeezes his hand, knowing what he means. For a few minutes, he would like it to be just them, the only remaining founding members of their original society. The nine of them. A bond that can never be severed, even in the cruel hands of death. Even in the face of a world that says they are foolish rebels without a cause.

Because that has never been true, and as Enjolras puts his hands out to either side of him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s hands warming his own, as the five of them sit, joined together, he feels their victory, the victory of all those behind them and in front of them, resting at the bottom of his soul. When the time comes, that victory will spread it wings. Step by step and rebellion by rebellion. Progress after progress. In the meantime they will tend to it. They will fight. And they will remember. He hears his own words again, remembers how he felt saying them from the top of the barricade, surrounded by those people he loved and respected most in the world.

_Citizens, do you picture to yourselves the future?_

He can _see_ it.

_If liberty is the summit, equality is the base._

He can _feel_ it.

_Whence should proceed that cry of love, if not from the summit of sacrifice?_

It’s here in this room with him, in the faces of these friends. In Combeferre’s penetrating eloquence, in Courfeyrac’s verve, in Feuilly’s cosmopolitan enthusiasm, in Grantaire’s loyalty. In the selfless spirit of Valjean. In Marius’ love for Cosette, and in Cosette’s unquenchable light in the face of suffering. In Gavroche’s thirst for education. In his own heart and every inch of his dedication to seeing this through.

The five of them look up, sharing the same feeling, and in the quiet, although there are only five people in the room, nine of them breathe as one.  

* * *

A few days later, the entire household is gathered out on the front lawn, the sun warming their faces as they watch Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Gavroche play with a ball. Grantaire and Courfeyrac toss it over Gavroche’s head, much to his immense annoyance and even if he won’t admit it, amusement. Combeferre, Enjolras, Feuilly, Cosette, and Marius sit nearby on blankets forming a small half-circle, Enjolras’ leg stretched out in front of him to prevent stiffness.

“Come on!” Gavroche shouts. “This isn’t fair, you’re both taller than me.”

“Ah but that is the point, young Gavroche,” Grantaire teases, winking at him. “You must think of a way to subvert us.”

“You’re an ass,” Gavroche says, matter of fact.

“Yes, that is true,” Grantaire says with a grin. “I would never dispute that fact.”

“Jump up and hit it Gavroche!” Cosette calls out from her place next to Marius.

“That’s not fai…”Courfeyrac begins, then tilts his head, surprised after he begins his sentence. “How do you know that?”

“I did live in a convent and went to school with other girls around my age you know,” Cosette says. “We did have some time to play games, and I was always one of the shortest.”

“Not all prayer and no fun then?” Grantaire says, holding the ball just out of Gavroche’s reach as the boy jumps up for it.

“We lived in a convent, but we weren’t nuns,” Cosette says. “I considered it, but eventually decided against. I was a bit too interested in the world to be shut behind the doors.”

“I’m sure Marius is pleased you decided against,” Courfeyrac replies, catching the ball as Grantaire tosses it.

“Decidedly,” Marius says, taking Cosette’s hand in his own with a signature shy smile.

“I recall when this fellow first mentioned you to me, Cosette,” Courfeyrac says, still holding the ball, but lower this time. “He was besotted.”

Marius is about to answer, but he’s cut off by the sound of Feuilly’s voice.

“Um, Courfeyrac?” Feuilly says, pointing. “You’d better…”

Before Courfeyrac can even turn his head he feels smaller hands pull the ball out of his own, a triumphant shout echoing through the air.

“Aha!” Gavroche shouts. “That’s what you get for teasing me, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” Courfeyrac says, a good-natured grin spreading across his face. “Well, to keep it honorable I should bow out then shouldn’t I?”

“Hear hear,” Grantaire says, and Courfeyrac aims a well place kick at his shin.

“Hey!” Grantaire says, picking up a handful of green grass and tossing it at Courfeyrac’s face.

“My new jacket!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “Grantaire, you wretch!” Courfeyrac picks up an even larger handful of dirt and grass and sprinkles it over Grantaire’s head, using the inch or so of height he has to his advantage.

“Boys,” Feuilly chides, but he’s smiling even still. “Of the three of you in this moment, I’m quite sure Gavroche is the most mature by far.”

“I am!” Gavroche says, puffing up his chest.

Enjolras, content to quietly watch till that moment, laughs uproariously at this, and delight fills Courfeyrac’s chest.

Courfeyrac is, however, determined, and digs down deep, pulling the dampest piece of grass mixed with soil that he can find and tossing it at the center of Grantaire’s chest. He does not, however, plan for Grantaire running at him full-throttle. He dashes off, but slips on another patch of grass, going tumbling down.

“You two are ridiculous,” Feuilly says, exasperated, but fond. “Help me out here, Combeferre, before they hurt themselves.”

“Oh,” Combeferre says, sly. “I would, Feuilly. But I’m afraid I’m a bit too amused just now at Courfeyrac’s misfortune.”

“You utter traitor,” Courfeyrac says, but flops down next to Combeferre anyhow, head resting on Combeferre’s shoulder as his breaths return to him. He looks up at Enjolras for a moment, who looks back down at him, looking curiously at Courfeyrac’s closed fist.

Combeferre is but a second too late.

“Courfeyrac, wait….” he tries, but before he can move to seize Courfeyrac’s wrist, dirt is smudged down both his cheeks in long stripes.

“You are a terrible person,” Combeferre says, but he makes no effort to stop Courfeyrac as he splays out across the blanket, between him and Enjolras.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says with a wave of his hand. “You love me.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says. “But it does not mean you are not terrible.” He attempts to remove the dirt with his hands, but it only ends up smearing it further as well as getting it on his fingers.

“Monarchy is terrible,” Courfeyrac says. “I am not. I am an absolute delight. Right, Enjolras?”

“Clever, Courfeyrac,” he says, affectionate. “But I am not getting in the middle of this dispute. You two must settle it yourselves.”

“Betrayed again!” Courfeyrac exclaims.

“And him agreeing with you would not be betraying me?” Combeferre asks, raising one eyebrow and trying very hard not to smile.

At this, despite himself, Courfeyrac cannot come up with an answer.

“Well, someone needs to take my place and play with Gavroche and Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says. “Who will it be?”

His eyes flit up to Enjolras, who is looking out at Grantaire and Gavroche with a wistful gleam in his eyes, as if he’d love nothing more than to play with them. Courfeyrac’s heart twinges for how much he looks like a young boy unable to join his friends in their games. And though this is not Savate or fencing or galloping off wildly on horseback, Courfeyrac thinks Enjolras might enjoy this and should be able to handle it. Certainly, he could try.

“What about you, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks. “You could take my place.”

Enjolras looks at him for a moment as if he doesn’t register the words, then shakes his head, willing away a thought.

“Oh, I…” he hesitates, then steels himself, determined as two parts of himself battle it out. He looks at Combeferre. “Might I, Combeferre? I believe my leg can handle it for a time.”

“You needn’t ask my permission,” Combeferre says, but smiles in a way that shows he knows it’s a consideration rather than a search for approval, Enjolras’ new effort at taking his physical health into consideration, both for his own benefit and to save his friends the worry. “But I’m certain you’d be fine. Just be careful.”

Enjolras nods, accepting Grantaire’s hand to help him up from the ground. He leaves his cane, as he’s only walking a few feet away, his limp more pronounced, but his face free of pain. Courfeyrac turns to Combeferre.

“Thank you for that,” he says, pressing Combeferre’s hand for a moment.

“For what?” Combeferre asks, but his expression indicates a part of him already knows

“You didn’t tell him that running isn’t his strength anymore, you didn’t hesitate,” Courfeyrac says. “You simply let him go.”

“Well,” Combeferre replies, taking a bit of the dirt from his cheek and thumbing a some onto the tip of Courfeyrac’s nose. “He needn’t run to play this game, and I, well…sometimes I must remind myself to be his friend and not his doctor. And he is much stronger than he was. I only dislike seeing him in pain.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac answers, flicking Combeferre’s arm affectionately. “I know exactly.”

“It appears Enjolras and Gavroche might have ganged up on Grantaire this time,” Feuilly says from the other side of Combeferre.

“So they have, my friend,” Courfeyrac says, moving to sit between Feuilly and Combeferre now that Enjolras has vacated his spot.

Gavroche jumps every time he throws the ball, and Grantaire, for all his efforts, cannot time his own jumps correctly. Enjolras, much taller, has no struggle catching the ball. Despite themselves, Marius and Cosette are laughing, and at the same moment Valjean comes out the front door.

“What are you up to out here?” he asks, taking a chair as opposed to sitting on one of the blankets, and sitting it next to Cosette.

“Embarrassing me,” Grantaire scowls.

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,” Enjolras says “Gavroche was in your spot mere minutes ago and you thought it was hilarious.”

Grantaire does not dignify that with an answer, and they continue on. But Enjolras is still slower than he used to be, and occasionally steps awkwardly on his bad leg, slowing him down more, and it is during one of these moments when Grantaire sees his opportunity. Finally timing it right, he leaps into the air, seizing the ball almost as Enjolras throws it. Enjolras, though rubbing his leg after the odd step, still laughs, the sound ringing through the air. Courfeyrac’s eyes flick over to Combeferre when he sees Enjolras rubbing his leg, but Combeferre doesn’t look unduly concerned. As they’ve discussed before, Enjolras has to learn to live with and manage the injury, and given how independent their friend is, they cannot barge in at any moment they fear he might be in pain. He must learn to recognize his own limits.

Now that Grantaire has the ball, he tosses it back and forth to Gavroche with a wicked grin at Enjolras, who no matter his attempts to get it back, fails. He cannot jump around as the other two can, and the movements to which he resorts with his arms are enough to make them all laugh, and Enjolras himself grins good-naturedly. There is a moment, however, when Enjolras leaps into the air the tiniest bit, clearly out of habit, and lands on his bad leg a little too hard. He falls to the ground, and Courfeyrac sees him set his jaw against what must be a wave of pain, but he puts his hand on Combeferre’s arm to stop him from going over to help.

“Courfeyrac, what…”

“Give him a moment,” Courfeyrac says, recognizing the gleam of mischief in Enjolras’ eyes even from a few feet away. “He didn’t mean to fall, but I’m certain he’s about to take advantage of it.”

Combeferre yields, and Courfeyrac can tell from Feuilly’s broad grin that he sees Enjolras’ plan, too.

“Enjolras!” Gavroche exclaims. “Are you all right?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, wincing just dramatically enough to be convincing.

“Enjolras?” Gavroche asks, reaching out to touch Enjolras’ shoulder, worried now.

At this, Enjolras seizes his chance, and when Valjean sees what he’s doing, he lets out a shout of laughter more genuine than Courfeyrac has yet heard. Enjolras’ arm darts out, seizing Gavroche and pulling him over him so that Gavroche lands gently on the other side and on his back, so surprised that Enjolras plucks the ball from his grip. It takes a moment, but Enjolras gets onto this knees, leaning over Gavroche with a grin on his face.

In response, Gavroche throws grass at him.

“Smooth face!” he shouts, echoing his old teasing insult from the barricade.

“Enjolras you manipulative trickster!” Grantaire says, but he’s biting his lip against a chuckle.

“All’s fair in…well it’s not love and war,” Enjolras says, tilting his head. “It’s not my fault you fell for it, R.”

As Enjolras arches a single eyebrow in triumph, Grantaire punches him in the shoulder, affronted. Enjolras gasps in what looks like pain, grabbing his shoulder, and Grantaire’s face drops, realizing himself.

“Enjolras, oh my goodness, I am so sorry, I forgot,” Grantaire says, putting his hands on Enjolras’ arms. “Here, let me…”

It’s then that Grantaire realizes Enjolras’ head isn’t bowed in pain: he’s laughing himself silly, face hidden by his hair that has come loose from its tie.

“You two are so easy to play, it’s the opposite shoulder that was injured, and is, mind, fully healed and much less troublesome than my leg,” Enjolras says, grinning wide. “I’m not made of glass, you know.”

“You are a rascal,” Grantaire says, wiping the smirk of Enjolras’ face by pushing him lightly back to the ground from where he sits, and together with Gavroche, sprinkling his face with bits of grass.

“Grass fights seem to be the theme of the day,” Combeferre says, looking over at Courfeyrac with a fond half-smile.

“Certainly,” Courfeyrac says. “Who knows how much effort it will take to get it out of this jacket! At least I was kind enough to smear dirt on your face instead of your clothing.”

“Oh yes,” Feuilly says, dry. “I’m sure he appreciates that a great deal.”

“Of course,” Combeferre replies, similar in tone. “I so enjoy having dirt smeared on my face. You know, I notice Feuilly came out of this unscathed?”

“I would _never_ smear dirt on Feuilly,” Courfeyrac says. “He is far too nice to me for such a thing. You, on the other hand, are constantly cruel and teasing me.” He puts hand on his heart, putting on a wounded tone.

“Yes,” Combeferre says. “That is certainly why I brought you your favorite scone at breakfast this morning when you overslept.”

Courfeyrac elbows him in the side, and Combeferre shakes his head, smiling, but loops an arm through Courfeyrac’s, leaning his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courfeyrac in turn loops an arm through Feuilly’s, utterly content. His eyes flicker over to the friends in front of him, watching as Marius and Cosette push Valjean out onto the grass, encouraging him to play with Grantaire and Gavroche. After a moment, he gives in. Enjolras walks back over, his clothing half-covered in grass and dirt, and sits down next to Combeferre, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. Combeferre remains silent, but takes his free arm and wraps it around Enjolras’ waist, pulling him closer to the three of them.

“Good game, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Indeed,” Enjolras says with a small smile, looking out again to watch Valjean play with the other two, Cosette’s amused laughter warming all of their hearts. And as he looks out, Courfeyrac can almost see their missing friends on the other side of the lawn, grinning. His old and new families are blending together, in life, death, and everything in between.

 

 


	41. Epilogue: Becoming Historic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Well, over two years after this story started, it is finally finished, and I can hardly believe it! Much thanks to ariadneslostthread for all of her amazing help with this, because this fic wouldn't be the same without her. And much thanks to all of you who read or reviewed this story or left me a message on tumblr, it meant so, so much. This is probably without a doubt my favorite thing I've ever written. Les Mis has changed my life, and writing this story was a huge part of that. I hope you enjoy this last chapter!

**February, 1848**

Enjolras pushes the door to his office open with his cane, eyes still flitting over the paper in his hand, paying little attention to where he's walking and not really considering why the door is unlocked at all. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes if he's speaking to someone on his way out he forgets to lock it. The sun is just rising as he enters, the light pooling in through the windows and glinting off the nameplate on his desk.

_Rene Fauchelevent, Mayor of Avignon._

"You will fall trying to walk like that," someone says from the direction of his desk. Startled, Enjolras drops his paper, looking up.

"Gavroche," he says, bending over to pick the paper up. "I suppose as long as you're here I'll have someone to assist me should I fall, no?"

"True," Gavroche admits. "But I suspect you do this even when no one is here, so what will you do then?"

"I am capable of getting up myself, you know," Enjolras says. "Troublesome though my leg is sometimes, I'm not an invalid."

"Doesn't mean you should walk and read, now does it?"

Enjolras arches an eyebrow. "I believe I am meant to be the older brother in this relationship, preventing you from doing reckless things and not the other way around."

"Well," Gavroche says, smirking. "Perhaps you should not do reckless things."

"Said the person who plays pranks on Combeferre before he's had tea in the morning," Enjolras shoots back. "Will you never cease breaking into my office? You are 27 years old."

"Not likely," Gavroche says, the grin on his face a mixture of Bahorel and Courfeyrac. He's mostly neatly dressed, Enjolras observes, though his cravat is messily tied and his shirt untucked.

Enjolras tries frowning, but does not succeed.

"You are back early from Paris."

Gavroche takes yearly trips to Paris now, since he'd finished his schooling in Marseilles two years ago, earning a law degree while lodging with Enjolras' parents. He has little intention of becoming a lawyer, but his knowledge of the way the law functions proves useful in his work with local workers groups who wanted more protections, as well as all the other political activities he dabbles in across Avignon. The school Enjolras and Feuilly opened all these years ago now has private donors, and Gavroche helped take over when Enjolras became mayor three years ago.

"I have news," Gavroche says, standing up and gesturing at Enjolras to sit, wordlessly taking his cane and leaning it against the wall as is the habit.

"You are faster than the papers, then," Enjolras replies, smiling. "As ever. What is it?"

"Speaking of newspapers," Gavroche says, setting two down on Enjolras' desk with a satisfying smack. "I brought you these. They're obviously about a week outdated, but I thought you might like them anyhow." He lays a copy of  _Le National_  and  _La Reforme_  down on the desk. "Given the climate it wasn't so easy to get a hold of them. I know the second is far more to your taste, but I thought I'd bring the other anyhow."

"Thank you," Enjolras says. "I do appreciate that. I've sure everyone will."

"They have outlawed the political banquets," Gavroche says without ceremony.

Enjolras wants to be surprised, but he isn't. "Of course they did," he says, closing his paper with a loud thwack. "It was the only legal way left to gather in large groups and speak of politics. Those mostly helped the middle and upper classes, besides, though some were open to the public and to the workers, who are more harshly affected than anyone. The crackdowns on illegal societies and revolutionary activity are worse than ever."

"People are right furious," Gavroche adds. "I think something will happen, and well…I know all of you have been speaking of returning to Paris for a visit."

"We have," Enjolras says, and for a moment, he feels as if he inhabits the body of his younger self, eighteen and striding through the streets of Paris, excitement and absolute determination pulsing through his veins, his bag near to bursting with books of revolutionaries past that his father hid from him. He could feel the heart of the rebellion pounding beneath the streets, its beat slowed but never stopped, barricades rising every few years every time the people reached their wits end, anger bursting out and into the atmosphere. The regime in charge only fought back so hard because they were afraid of losing their power. And they had reason to be. "You suspect there will be a rebellion?"

"Given the bread prices and the general depressed economy, the atmosphere seems right for it," Gavroche replies. "That and the bad harvests…well. Combeferre has already said it might truly be the end of Louis-Phillipe this time. And more importantly, the end of the monarchy," he adds, with a scowl that reminds Enjolras of the young boy he'd known at the barricades. "Perhaps he will be the last king of France. Hopefully without any Napoleonic monarch interludes."

Enjolras smiles, and his mind flies back to Marius' own initial support of Napoleon. Of Combeferre's three words.

_To be free._

Oh, how far things had come.

"People have had years to let their anger stew over the fact that we have a monarchy at all when we once had democracy in our grasp a generation ago, to let it stew over the growing repression. The hunger. The disease," Enjolras says, watching Gavroche walk around the office, poking at various things hanging on the wall and sitting on his desk. This includes the framed newspaper clipping announcing the opening of the Avignon-Marseilles railroad line last year, over which Combeferre had been ecstatic. "The financial aristocracy and the landowners essentially run the country. He's disenfranchised too many different groups. Most certainly the workers, who are tired of change often not going far enough to benefit them, as well they should be. And the bourgeoisie are disgruntled. It is a dangerous combination. Perhaps one that could lead to more universal, far-reaching reform."

"So, old man that you are," Gavroche teases. "Do you think you could keep up with the young men on the barricades, if they arise?"

"Excuse me, but I am only 41," Enjolras scoffs, causing a wide, cat-like grin to spread across Gavroche's face. "Old. Please."

"Well," says a voice from the doorway. "You certainly argue with the passion of a younger man. Some things never change."

"You tease me almost as badly as Gavroche, Courfeyrac," Enjolras says, turning. "I thought I left all of you asleep this morning?"

"You did," Courfeyrac says, striding across the room and taking a seat in one of the chairs across from Enjolras' desk, one of his feet perched against the edge. "But Combeferre couldn't find something this morning in his mess of a room, and given the noise and the fact that my room is next to his, well. You know how much of a racket he makes when something he can't find is buried under a pile of books. Or some of his random knick-knacks."

"I do," Enjolras says, fond. "You know, I could have an appointment, and here you are with your feet on my desk, getting dirt everywhere."

"You don't have an appointment, I checked your book," Courfeyrac replies. "Besides, it is only 7 in the morning." He turns to Gavroche. "And you, my young lad, why are you back so early? I thought you weren't due till this afternoon?"

"I caught an earlier coach," Gavroche says. "I might have…missed all of you." He mutters the words, but they're still plainly heard.

"Might have!" Courfeyrac exclaims, reaching over to muss Gavroche's hair. "Enjolras, he teases you about being old and yet he missed us. You have grown in the last two months, Gavroche."

"Courf," Gavroche says, pulling out from under him. "I'm 27."

"But still always our darling boy."

Gavroche rolls his eyes, but his expression betrays his affection.

"Call me that again," Gavroche says. "And I will point out your gray hairs."

"Blasphemous," Courfeyrac says in response before turning back to Enjolras. "We're due at Valjean, Marius, and Cosette's tonight Enjolras," he reminds him. "Don't forget."

"I couldn't," Enjolras says. "We go there twice a week for dinner. Sometimes three. They come to see us several times a week. Our house is but two miles from theirs. On purpose."

"Yes, well you are you, Enjolras. You get caught up."

"So I do. Speaking of, Gavroche says the political banquets have been banned in Paris."

Something sparks in Courfeyrac's eyes, an ember of something familiar from their twenties, a desperate, aching thrill to which Enjolras can scarcely put words.

"One of my clients, a worker with a brother in Paris, mentioned there had been talk of that," Courfeyrac says, anger coating his tone. "It begins in Paris, but it will spread. We'd best warn our printer. And Marius and I will be on the lookout for cases involving any kind of speech or press violations. Do what we can to help there if people are tried."

Enjolras nods. "We might write the pamphlets, but no one knows who Monsieur A.B.C. is. Our personal leanings are certainly known enough, but there is no evidence connecting us with the pamphlets, which are, obviously essentially forbidden given our current press laws. Monsieur Bellamy can be more easily traced and if he is discovered, well. None of us could live with that. We would take the fall with him and make ourselves known. After which it would be difficult to continue as we've been going. Out in the open and under the radar all at once."

"Indeed," Courfeyrac says. "Bernadette will be interested to know about this," he adds, speaking of his mistress of several years. They'd met through republican contacts in Avignon, and Enjolras was thoroughly impressed at a woman that managed to make Courfeyrac blush. They'd talked vaguely of marriage, but Enjolras suspected they were not well-suited for it. Their arrangement gave them the ability to have their own separate lives but still spend time together. "We're all having lunch with her today, also. And no, you don't have an appointment, I checked your book. Again."

"How do you know my book better than me?"

Courfeyrac tilts his head. "Please, Enjolras."

Gavroche laughs rather loudly at this, and Enjolras glaring at him only serves to make it worse.

"Is Cosette coming to lunch?" Enjolras asks. "She and Bernadette are half joined at this point, I expect."

"Unfortunately not. She has to do…something with Blanche, Elaine, and Marc this afternoon that I cannot recall without the proper amount of coffee. Though I am sure Blanche will be mightily pleased to see you," Courfeyrac adds, referring to Marius and Cosette's 14-year-old daughter.

"Oh hush," Enjolras says. "It's not my fault she found her way into Cosette's political books."

"Fault?" Courfeyrac crows, amused, and Gavroche laughs harder. "You showed her right where they were. You gave them to her."

"Cosette wasn't hiding them," Enjolras insists. "There were right on the shelf. Always have been."

"What was that she asked you last time? 'Uncle Enjolras, what are the best materials to build a barricade?'"

"She also asked Feuilly about the proper construction," Enjolras insists.

"Well, she loves us all of course," Courfeyrac says. "But she was following you around the rest of the night practically taking notes. I thought Marius might faint."

"Marius has a tendency for fainting."

Courfeyrac's response is interrupted by a knock on the doorframe, alerting them to Combeferre's presence.

"My, this office is popular this morning," Enjolras remarks, as Combeferre walks in. "See," he continues, looking at Courfeyrac. "Combeferre knocks."

"Combeferre is polite," Courfeyrac says, watching Combeferre hug Gavroche in greeting. "And does science experiments in his room."

"What does one have to do with the other?" Combeferre asks, and Enjolras grins because Combeferre does not attempt to dispute Courfeyrac.

"Just stating facts," Courfeyrac says. "What brings you here?"

"Well for some reason we all woke up early, so I thought we could stop off for some breakfast? Feuilly and Grantaire went down to the café by Dr. Baudin's office and I said I'd come fetch you two. And we shall surprise them with Gavroche."

"That sounds nice," Enjolras says, getting up from his chair and seizing his cane from its place resting against the wall.

"The great mayor of Avignon is drawn away from his work?" Gavroche teases, elbowing Enjolras lightly in the side.

"For my friends, certainly," Enjolras says. "Besides we can discuss the political banquets being banned in Paris."

"WHAT?" Combeferre exclaims, jolting up from where he's absentmindedly adjusting Enjolras' hand on his cane, forever fixing his bad habit of holding it incorrectly.

"News straight from Gavroche," Enjolras says. "So we know it's true."

Combeferre scowls. "It was the last legal way to speak of politics in any kind of group left."

"I know," Enjolras says, shaking his head. "Well, we shall discuss over some much needed coffee." He turns to Gavroche. "My key, if you please?"

Gavroche winks, pulling it out of his coat pocket, and not for the first time, Enjolras notes how strange it is still, that Gavroche is literally as tall as he is. He holds his gaze, thinking for a few moments of the young boy he'd known, the boy running about Paris with shoes so thin he could feel the bricks beneath his feet, a streak of dirt perpetually on his cheek and a glint of mischief in his eyes, intelligence, fervor, and empathy teeming in his expression, so much for someone his age. The dirt is gone and his shoes are better, but the rest remains much the same.

"What?" Gavroche asks, tilting his head, his now deep voice mixing with the childish laughter Enjolras remembers.

"Feeling sentimental, I suppose," Enjolras says, prodding Gavroche with his free hand so he'll follow Combeferre and Courfeyrac. "Out with you."

"You were feeling sentimental over me," Gavroche says, mightily pleased. "You soft-hearted sap."

"Hmmm," Enjolras says, non-committal, but his lips quirk upward, betraying him.

"I am like the son you never had!" Gavroche cries in a dramatic tone he surely learned from Courfeyrac, grasping Enjolras' arm to add effect.

"What?" Combeferre asks, turning his head as he walks.

"Oh, Gavroche is teasing me," Enjolras says, but as he meets Gavroche's eyes he winks, and when Gavroche grins back, he knows his teasing words ring true. He'd come here with no family, and hardly an ounce of trust, but now here he stood, surround by a whole group of pseudo brother-fathers who'd loved him more than his blood family could ever imagine. Gavroche flicks Enjolras' arm before dashing up to loop an arm through Courfeyrac's, chattering about his trip to Paris, while Combeferre falls into step with Enjolras' slower stride.

"His talk of Paris is making you think of the past?" Combeferre asks, the same emotion in his eyes that Enjolras feels in his heart.

"Part of me always is," Enjolras admits. "Our friends are with me, with all of us every day. We have created such lives here it is easier now, to not focus on thinking of Paris. But now…this news. Something tells me we should go, perhaps. Something is pulling me towards it."

"I agree," Combeferre says. "I don't see any reason why we couldn't go, if we can get away from here for a time. We could simply say we have business there, for you in particular it would not be odd, and Dr. Baudin wouldn't mind my absence for a bit. Marius and Courfeyrac have their own firm now, and Feuilly and Gavroche could give the children a few weeks break. It is doable. And right, somehow. We should discuss it as a group."

"I believe even Valjean would deem it safe for me now," Enjolras jokes.

"Yes," Combeferre chuckles. "I believe he would. But he will worry, inevitably. Though perhaps we should avoid getting arrested, if possible."

Enjolras laughs, and mirroring Gavroche and Courfeyrac, loops his arm through Combeferre's as they walk.

_Paris_ , he thinks.  _I have missed you._

* * *

Enjolras has seen Cosette angry. Though at present, he is not certain he has ever seen her this  _angry_. Incensed would be a proper word.

"How can they do this!" she exclaims, and Enjolras watches a quiet Valjean look over at his daughter ever so fondly while Marius perhaps looks like he has never been more in love.

"You know as well as we all do that they've spent the last 16 years doing whatever they can to repress republican and socialist thought," Combeferre says, picking up a bite with his fork and spinning it around. "To suppress any kind of leftist or radical thought all. This is simply another attempt."

"Fining newspaper printers and pamphlet writers," Feuilly adds, not masking the bitterness in his tone. "Outlawing unlicensed street-criers. Outlawing even the  _term_ republican."

"Yes but this was the last openly legal way," Cosette says, flustered. "I just…"

"Trust us, Cosette," Enjolras says, reaching over to cover her hand for a moment. "We feel the same."

She sighs rather loudly, and at this Grantaire reaches for the wine, topping off her glass.

"Thank you, R," she says, smiling over at him.

"The least I could do, my lady," he says with a smile and a joking half bow from where he sits.

"But the chamber of deputies…" she tries.

"There's only about a half dozen republicans within it," Courfeyrac says, shaking his head, grave. "The effect would not be much. They have been trying, what with the steady rise in the cost of living and the flat wages, but they are drowned out every time. There is popular support among the various leftist groups, but we do not have the power to act from within. Their laws have ensured republican groups are scattered and with only local and not national leadership. It must be overturned, and the power taken back."

Quiet falls for a moment, broken only by the sound of the three children laughing in the adjacent room. Enjolras watches Valjean peer around at each of them as if trying to read their thoughts.

"You all suspect a rebellion will occur?" he asks, gazing around before his eyes land on Enjolras.

"The climate is right for it," Enjolras says, trying to ease into the subject. "One cannot predict, but. From my own experience, I'd say it feels a bit like 1830. But hopefully will go beyond what that accomplished and rid us of the monarchy instead of trying to fix it."

"I saw Paris for myself," Gavroche says, taking over for a moment. "They have shut off every other legal avenue, and if these mentors of mine," he says, playfully jabbing his thumb toward them, and Enjolras can't help but smile. "Have taught me anything, then that means rebellion is coming."

Another pause. A few seconds of quiet. Valjean doesn't look angry, but merely contemplative. Worried.

"You are thinking of going to Paris," Valjean says. It is not a question.

"We have only discussed it briefly," Enjolras says. "But it is a consideration. I have already been asked to Paris twice by contacts in the government who know I am a republican mayor in action even if I am not allowed to say it openly in name. We could manage two or three weeks away, I should think."

Enjolras looks Valjean in the eye, and reads there what the older man does not say aloud.

_One does not always return home from these things._

"We have not been to Paris since…" Enjolras begins, but Valjean holds up a hand.

"I know," he says, and he's very gentle. "For 16 years."

They have done such good work here, Enjolras knows. Built a life. Built a home. Built a family. And all of this he hopes to return to. To the people and the life and the work of their cause. But he cannot deny the way the wind blows his spirit toward Paris, cannot deny the immediate push they all felt upon hearing this news, this tangible chance in history they must take. This is a moment, and Enjolras knows that he and his friends cannot let it pass them by. Not now, after everything. Valjean looks around again at all of them, his smile growing as his eyes land on each of them before he looks at Enjolras again. There is concern in his eyes, a bittersweet gleam, but his smile is still true. Enjolras breathes out in relief.

"Well," he says, smile growing wry. "Do your best to avoid getting arrested, would you? I don't believe I can tolerate a journey to Paris very well these days."

At this, the whole table laughs, drawing the attention of the children in the other room, who dash in to join them.

"Were you talking about rebellion?" Blanche asks, looking enthused, and just a little bit of color drains from Marius' face.

"Are you spying on us, dear one?" he asks.

"No," Blanche says, anything but innocent as she clasps her hands behind her back. "You were talking rather loudly. I heard Maman slam her hand on the table."

Marius sighs, but he's smiling. "Enjolras, do you see what you have wrought?"

"Why must I always be the recipient of the blame?" Enjolras asks, but he feels tension leave him as Valjean laughs. "You could just as easily blame anyone sitting at this table. Or your own wife."

"Yes," Grantaire says, leaning forward. "But no one's expressions are as amusing as yours are."

"The lot of you," Enjolras mutters.

"You adore us, Uncle Enjolras," Blanche says as Elaine and Marc appear behind her, drawn to their grandfather's laughter. "You cannot lie."

"That is certainly true," Combeferre says, already chuckling as Enjolras glares at him for his betrayal.

"I firmly disagree," Enjolras says, swiping his hand through the air. "About the lying, that is."

"Let me be clearer," Combeferre says. "You can lie cold to a stranger or an enemy. But never, not once, have you been able to lie to your friends. Your voice goes up when you do."

"I," Enjolras tries to argue, but knows it's true, feeling the blush creep into his cheeks. "All right, well. You've found me out Blanche. I do rather adore all of you."

"As if we ever doubted it!" Courfeyrac exclaims, clapping Feuilly on the back as he does so. "Now I say we all have tea while we wait for dessert, hmm?"

"An enticing plan," Valjean says. "Javert accepted my invitation, by the way. He should be here to join us for dessert soon. But before we go, I must say, Courfeyrac my lad, this wine is the best you've brought yet. Remind me to never select my own again."

"I would be pleased to fill your cellar, my good sir," Courfeyrac says, clasping Valjean's shoulder.

The group breaks up, most of them heading to the kitchen for tea, but Enjolras follows Valjean into the drawing room in silence, sensing the older man would like to speak with him. Once they're seated, Enjolras speaks almost immediately.

"I am sorry to worry you," Enjolras says. "I do not want you to think we are doing this lightly."

"Enjolras," Valjean says, resting a hand on his arm, and Enjolras sees the life shine through his weathered, aging face, the kindness in his eyes never diminished over the years. "I could never accuse you, of all people, of doing anything lightly." He pauses, searching Enjolras' face. "Besides that, how could I deny you your very spirit?"

Enjolras breathes in deep, and memories of 1832 play in his mind, the sublime sensation when he stood on the barricade after it was constructed settling in his bones, the sun shining down on the top of it, Paris before him, his cause pulsing hot through his blood as the people he cared for most in the world stood at his side, joined together over something bigger than all of them, something that linked not just their hearts and their minds, but their souls. These feelings mix with the blood and the screams and the gunfire as he sees Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, and finally Prouvaire fall, agony ripping through him in such a way as he has not felt for a time, so much does he ache for their presence now. He always misses them, but in moments such as these, he feels the memories of his initial grief once more like he is 25 and just lost four of the most important people in his life, like he'd just watched the barricade fall to ash in front of him despite their courageous stand. The four of them would be proud of the lives they've built here, of the work they've done. But they would also tell them to go, he knows. He's certain of it.

"You are the best man I've ever known," Enjolras says, not abbreviating his emotion.

"You think too well of me," Valjean says, but he squeezes Enjolras' arm. It has been a privilege, Enjolras thinks, to witness Valjean's journey toward appreciating himself. He will never do so as much as he deserves, but it is better now than it was before.

"This…this is not like 1832," Enjolras says. "I feel as if this will spread if it begins. I hardly know why I say that, only that I feel it to be true. Things were bad then, and they are bad now. Then, the spark was Lamarque's death, this time the banquets. Prouvaire would tell me to set aside my logic for the moment and believe this feeling, if he were here. I simply…something is happening. I do not even require being on the frontlines, I just want to see it."

Valjean arches an eyebrow, amused. "You mean to tell me you will go to Paris and simply watch as your comrades battle?"

"Well, no," Enjolras says, caught. "But I do not need to lead, as before. That is for the younger men. But I just want to be a part of it. We all do."

"I know," Valjean says, and they can hear the laughter of the others in the adjacent room. "You shall have to tell me everything you see upon your return. And please send your family a letter and let them know where you are, I would not choose to be on the other end of your mother's wrath."

"That I can understand," Enjolras says, chuckling. Aside from the people in this house, Enjolras' parents are the only other people who know Valjean's true identity.

Enjolras smiles, knowing how much it takes for Valjean to set aside his worry, to say out loud that they will return. But somehow, Enjolras feels certain they will. Footsteps approach and they turn around to find Javert before them. It has been three weeks or so since Enjolras saw him last, though he knows he visits Valjean for the chess games that have become a part of their regular routine for years. Sometimes Enjolras can barely reconcile the police inspector who put the knife to his throat and the man standing before him, though somehow, despite his changes, Javert's basic personality has remained the same.

"Javert," Valjean says, nodding.

"Valjean," Javert says, returning the nod before looking over at Enjolras. "Monsieur le Mayor."

"Javert," Enjolras says, sighing but growing used to this odd, snarky teasing on Javert's part.

"What?" Javert asks. "You do not wish me to call you by your title?"

"You are very tiresome."

"I have heard that previously," Javert says, eyes flickering briefly over to Valjean. "Though if you are not careful with your insults I shall turn you in."

"You have been saying that for sixteen years," Enjolras points out.

"Well," Javert says, a half-smile on his face. "Perhaps tomorrow shall be the day. I hear the rest of your brood laughing in the kitchen, so why might the two of you be over here whispering in corners?"

"News from Paris that Gavroche returned with," Valjean says, smooth.

Javert does not question and they do not offer. Javert has done much in the past years to come to terms with the things he initially sought when he came to Avignon, the ideas of mercy and kindness and a grayer world, the idea that perhaps he did not have to live to be irreproachable only, but human, things that once nearly destroyed him. He's worked part-time within the Avignon police force to help reduce sentences for the people he once would have put in prison or sent to the galleys without a second thought. He comes to dinner once or twice a month with all of them and plays chess with Valjean twice a week. Occasionally he will come to Enjolras' office. He sees these things as a penance, Enjolras knows, an enormous effort at correcting things so ingrained in him that he nearly leapt off a bridge to his death when he realized he could not arrest Valjean. That nearly caused him to take Enjolras' life. His friends ask him, sometimes, how he can interact with a man who almost killed him, and a vision of Javert's face in the jail cell the fateful morning appears before him every time, that strangely soft expression as he'd wiped the blood from Enjolras' face until his features hardened once more. A flicker of the lonely boy Javert once was, a boy that perhaps never left at all, but was simply forced by age to take on a world and responsibilities he was not ready for, no matter how capable an officer he was. A soul who'd never truly seen kindness offered to him, and also did not seek it out. But it is too much, Enjolras knows, to speak of intricate politics with him, let alone speaking of a rebellion.

"Javert," Cosette's voice says, and they turn around to see her carrying in a cake, the others behind her carrying various mugs of tea for everyone. Marc, Enjolras notes, is riding atop Grantaire's shoulders, and Elaine has her arm tucked through Courfeyrac's. "How good to see you. You've arrived just in time."

"Hello, Cosette," he says, his voice quiet as it usually is when he speaks to Cosette. He had a hand in her mother's fate, and she unknowingly saved him from a bridge, welcomed him when he came to play chess with the father Javert chased for years and sought to take away from her, and Enjolras thinks that it is she, not himself, who shows the most incredible forgiveness.

"Cosette knows my weakness," Combeferre says, sitting down on the arm of Enjolras' chair. He is easier around Javert now, speaks to him with polite kindness when they are together, but as if out of instinct he always sits near to Enjolras when Javert is present. "She has made a cake with chocolate and raspberry."

Cosette grins. "Well I do take notice of what people like. Which will be most useful when I open my small bakery in Avignon."

"Cosette you fiend," Courfeyrac says. "You kept this from us! You finally purchased the space you were looking at?"

"I did," Cosette says, starting to slice up the cake and handing the first piece to her father. "I will be there three days a week while the children are in their lessons."

"Congratulations, Cosette," Feuilly says, taking the piece she hands him and sitting next to Valjean on the sofa.

"Thank you," Cosette says. "You all get free everything of course. Family discount."

"Adrienne nearly fainted last time she had one of your pies," Grantaire says. "So she will certainly be pleased."

Cosette blushes. "You all flatter me."

"You should know better," Enjolras says. "We only offer the most genuine of compliments."

"If this cake is any indication," Javert chimes in. "I am sure you will be a great success."

"Oh," Cosette says, hiding her smile as she turns back to the cake and cuts the rest up. "You children are lucky," she continues, tapping each of them on the nose. "It is only on these family dinner nights when you are allowed to have sugar so late."

"I always behave," Blanche protests, picking up her first bite. "It's Elaine and Marc you have to corral."

At this, eleven-year-old Elaine huffs. " _You_  were the one up late reading those books Uncle Enjolras gave you last time. You were up until three!"

"What?" Cosette asks, swinging around toward Enjolras.

Enjolras raises his hands in defeat. "You keep them on your bookshelf, Cosette."

She swats him playfully on the arm.

"Well at least I'm quiet when I misbehave," Blanche says. At this, she goes to sit on the other side of Valjean, leaning on shoulder. "Right, Grandpere?"

"Ah my darling, you know I cannot deny you," he says, wrapping his arm around her. After a moment her siblings grow jealous, and run over to their grandfather. Enjolras meets Feuilly's eyes for a quick moment, sharing the same feeling. When they'd met, Valjean was a man worried his purpose was extinguished because his daughter was on the brink of being settled. Then they burst onto the scene, reinvigorating him. Then they built this life, this family, and then his grandchildren came. Enjolras' heart warms, and he thinks that no man on earth deserves this more than Valjean. Cosette watches her children surround their grandfather, eyes lighting up.

"Feuilly, son, pull out the chessboard if you would?" Valjean asks. And though he's heard this a thousand times, Enjolras notes that Feuilly still beams at the term of endearment. "You and I can play and then I am challenging Combeferre, who has beaten me far too often lately."

"Challenge accepted," Combeferre says, eyes dancing in anticipation, and Feuilly laughs.

"Sore loser, Valjean?" Javert questions. "Perhaps you know how I feel rather often, then."

"You beat me far more than you used to," Valjean says, and Enjolras watches Javert's lips quirk upward ever so much.

"Yes," Javert agrees. "But never enough, you see."

After a few minutes and very full of cake, everyone settles into their various enjoyments. Courfeyrac, Marius, Cosette, Grantaire, and Gavroche begin a game of cards, while Combeferre watches Feuilly and Valjean's chess match. Enjolras settles back on the sofa with a book and Blanche joins him with one of her own. Elaine and Marc seem happy to watch the card game, giggling every time Grantaire curses and Marius smacks him for doing so in front of them. Every so often he looks up at this family of his, the sounds of chatter and laughter making him feel content. Javert stays in his chair near the sofa where Enjolras sits, but his eyes stay on the nearby chessboard, watching Valjean and Feuilly makes their moves, silently learning. A bit of time passes and Enjolras feels eyes on him and glances up, finding Javert looking at him.

"What are you reading?" he asks, curious in a way Enjolras does not usually hear from him.

"A man called Louis Blanc," Enjolras answers.

Javert raises his eyebrows, silently indicating that this is not much of answer.

"He," Enjolras pauses, trying to think of how to give a brief answer to a bit of a complex book. Javert is intelligent, but even after these many years, Enjolras is never quite sure how deeply he should delve when these things are concerned. "He mostly speaks of guaranteeing employment for the urban poor."

Javert considers. "It sounds like a reasonable idea to me."

It is Enjolras' turn to raise his eyebrows.

"What?" Javert asks. "I am a proponent of work. That cannot surprise you."

"No," Enjolras says, slow. "I just was not certain I'd see a day where you would be agreeing with me over what some would consider 'radical' ideas."

"Well, as I have discovered, what one deems radical is a matter of perspective. And those in power perhaps lie more than those who are not, but distort the picture to slant the opposite way. I do not tolerate lying, on the whole."

Enjolras cannot help it. He smiles wide.

"Stop it," Javert says.

"Stop smiling?"

"It is not the smile that bothers me, it is the reason for the smile," Javert grumbles. "I am not one of your revolutionaries."

"I never said you were," Enjolras replies, putting the book in his lap and raising his hands.

"Good."

Another pause, and Enjolras has just picked up his book again when Javert speaks. A few feet away Valjean watches, a smile pulling at his lips while he waits for Combeferre to make his move.

"Planning any trips to Paris, then?" Javert asks, and this time Enjolras drops his book, causing Blanche to look up from her own.

"Why do you ask?" Enjolras asks, keeping his voice normal but hearing it go up ever so slightly at the end of his sentence.

"Some of the men were talking about unrest in Paris as I was leaving this afternoon," Javert says, trying to sound nonchalant. "It sounds like something the lot of you would do."

"I cannot go to Paris," Enjolras insists. "You know that better than anyone. You  _told_  me not to return."

"Mhmm," Javert answers, knowing he's lying. "Well, it has been 16 years and people believe you dead. It gives you the advantage of not having anyone looking for you."

Enjolras tilts his head. Is Javert…encouraging him to go? But Valjean saves him from answering, calling out.

"Your turn, if you wish, Javert," he says. "I'm afraid I've lost to both Feuilly and Combeferre now."

"Old age getting to you, Valjean?" Javert asks.

"Most assuredly," Valjean replies, winking at Enjolras.

"I will not let you win just to make you feel better."

"Certainly not."

"Do not let Valjean fool you," Grantaire says, smirking. "I let him win at cards on a routine basis."

Gavroche releases a whoop of laughter at this, and Valjean moves to ruffle Grantaire's hair in revenge, and Grantaire grins in return, pleased.

A moment later, Enjolras is drawn over to play cards with his friends. He looks around, listening to the chatter and the laughter and the fire crackling in the background, and knows that as much as he loves Paris, as much as he always will, it is truly the people around you who make a home.

He glances up while his friends look at their cards, eyes landing on the stairs. He thinks of how much he used to despise them, remembers fighting with Combeferre and half-collapsing on them, blood seeping through his pants, a knife of pain slicing through to what felt like his very bone, Valjean coming to sit next to him until Combeferre arrived. He remembers being in the middle of Combeferre and Courfeyrac after the Javert incident, gritting his teeth and making his way up, his friends' arms wrapped tightly around him. He remembers Grantaire carrying him up them as he fell asleep after they'd settled their argument, a stronger bond forged between them. He remembers how much easier it was to make his way down them once Feuilly convinced him to take the Laudanum for his pain. He remembers affectionately bickering with Cosette over politics as she patiently kept pace with his slower stride. He remembers hobbling after Blanche when she was a toddler as she crawled her way down them, laughing. He sees so many moments, and considers, again, the ebb and flow of grief, different as the memories on the stairs before him. Considers happiness and the past. When he first arrived here he could not think of looking forward, and looking forward was what he'd always done. He'd nearly lost himself, but in that moment, he'd learned, fully and completely, to depend on his friends when he needed them, and they him. They'd always been a family, but after the barricades all of their vulnerabilities were laid bare more than ever before, and it drew them closer. Enjolras learned he was a friend first and a leader second. He'd also learned a great deal about his own capacity for hope. For resilience, and natural though his inclination is, he knows his reserves would not be nearly so large if not for the magnificent people around him. It was a choice he made to imagine the future once more.

Their grief had driven them to even more passion for their cause. Due to their circumstances they'd switched tactics, but they were no less relentless, no less dedicated. Sixteen years ago, he'd hadn't known the happiness awaiting him, and even more, the fulfillment. But it would taste a lie to say he wasn't restless for the events in Paris now, and as he looks at his friends, he fills in the spaces between them with those that are gone but never lost to them.

Now, he looks forward, and once again, he feels the light of the future fill him up, until all he can see in his mind's eye are flags flying high on the barricades of Paris, guns lowered as shouts of joy erupt across the city.

He will never stop fighting for that dream.

* * *

Enjolras half expects the knock on his door when he hears it around half past eleven that night.

"Come in," he calls, smiling when he sees Combeferre's face.

"We are terrible night owls," Combeferre observes as he sits down on the edge of Enjolras' bed, watching as he closes his book and marks his place.

"That has been the case since we were eighteen, I'm afraid," Enjolras remarks, marveling at the idea that he has been friends with the people in this house for over twenty years, remembering late nights with Combeferre debating, reading, and writing over candlelight while Courfeyrac slept on the sofa beside them, long asleep. "Where is everyone?"

"Gavroche is out cold," Combeferre says. "Tired from his trip, I'd imagine. Grantaire was rambling about the kitchen on one of his late night cooking experiments, I expect. Courfeyrac was asleep with his door open and a book in his hand in a most marvelous impression of you."

"Or you," Enjolras protests.

"Quite true," Combeferre says. "So I took the liberty of removing it from his hands and shutting his door. True to form, he did not notice. Feuilly is downstairs with Elodie and Isaac."

Since securing this house nine years ago, they've kept a few extra rooms for their students, who are either gamin or otherwise in very poor circumstances, as a place to come to when they need it. A full meal and warm food does them a great deal of good, and a trail of them come in and out with regularity, but Elodie and Issac, a sibling pair, are particularly close to Feuilly, and Enjolras knows that eventually Feuilly hopes to take them in as his own, if they are amenable.

"I did not even hear them come in."

"Well, sometimes when you are reading intently you shut the world off a bit, my friend," Combeferre says, moving to sit next to Enjolras and lean against the pillows now. Silence falls, but they are sharing the same thought.

"You have already decided you want to go to Paris," Combeferre says, looking over at him.

"So have you," Enjolras replies.

Combeferre chuckles. "I believe we all have. Grantaire included. Courfeyrac is nearly bursting with his anticipation, and Feuilly was pacing about the drawing room half reading and half muttering to himself for a solid hour, too excited, it would seem, to pay attention to anything fully."

Enjolras doesn't answer immediately, fingers tracing the copy of  _La Reforme_  Gavroche brought from Paris, almost feeling as if he can feel the life and the anger and the passion of the city in its pages; every person who ever goes hungry, every sick person without medicine, every worker who slaves to the bone for an unlivable wage, every child without parents, every injustice and the hurt of every oppression. After a moment, Combeferre's hands reaches out to still it, sensing the restlessness.

"What is it?

"We have worked so hard over the past 16 years to change our small corner of France. This new city we found ourselves in. And we have done a good job."

"We have," Combeferre says, sensing Enjolras needs reassurance, but also knowing there's more.

"But I remember standing on that barricade in 1830, and then in 1832 when we led our own and it felt like the hope of all of France rested in my heart. I could see so clearly the potential, the beauty of possibility." Enjolras feels the emotion swirling within him, pushing against his chest as if it might burst, rattling through him with force. It is not sadness exactly, but simply an overflow of varied feeling.

"I know," Combeferre says, and the hand resting over Enjolras' holds tight.

"The potential of 1830 was cut off too soon, and people wondered why there was so much anger at stopping short with a constitutional monarchy, why that type of liberalism was not  _good enough_. But you have taught me that things do not always happen all at once, even if I wish it."

"And you have taught me that sometimes they must," Combeferre adds, drawing a smile out of Enjolras. "The work we have done here is more suited to me, I admit. Pushing Progress through in our daily actions toward humanity. An effort without violence. But I know the necessity of violence is not yet past."

"A compromise between the two, then, perhaps," Enjolras answers, running his thumb absentmindedly over the skin of Combeferre's hand. "I simply…I saw it so plainly. The anger settled in my bones and never left. I know, reasonably, that whatever happens in Paris, and something will, I'm sure, might not be the end of this war we've found ourselves entrenched in, but I wonder how many more times we and those who came after us will have to go to battle."

"There will always be battles," Combeferre says. "But then, there will always be people to fight them. And steadily, there will be change, whether by tiny steps or sudden overthrow. Or both. Hopefully one day, without the violence we see before us now. A system which provides for change from within."

"Yes," Enjolras says, sincere. "Yes I hope so. For now they appear to have left us with little other choice. Perhaps people will look back and say we were bloodthirsty, but even if they do, if the change we enact remains, I will be easy with it. Any violence we or our comrades commit is nothing in comparison to the violence of the state. And yet they force us to such violence. And then question why we were violent."

Combeferre nods. "But perhaps also, they will remember the blood that was spilt for those rights. I suspect many will. It will make them cherished even more."

Enjolras nods.

"The very same people who will fight the future battles we know little of now," Enjolras says. "Our enemies now call Robespierre and Marat and all of the original revolutionaries bloodthirsty. I'm sure those same type of people will refer to us and our comrades as the same in the future. There will always be people calling those who fought for change names, always people distorting the past to fit their power structure. But there will always be people to dismantle it. Always people to remember the truth, to remember the sacrifice. That nothing was given, but won after years of struggle."

"How right you are, my friend," Combeferre says. "We shall go, then. I'm certain the others will agree, and we can speak to Adrienne and my brother Eric about looking in on the house."

Enjolras nods. "I'm sure Cosette and Marius would consent as well, should we be gone for longer than expected for some reason."

Enjolras turns, reaching over to his nightstand and retrieving a leather bound journal, the spine weathered from years of opening and closing it. He undoes the tie, opening it and flipping through the pages, every last one covered in ink from top to bottom save a few. There are words, drawings, stories, and quotes throughout. Memories of their friends live on each page, breathing with the love of the hands that put them there. Enjolras bought it sometime around six months after they'd come to Avignon on his first solitary journey into the city. He'd gone into the shop looking for new stationary with which to write his parents, grandmother, and Musichetta. He'd seen the selection of journals there, and picked this one up almost without really considering what he was doing. He'd brought it home, and ever since then, whenever any of them missed Prouvaire, Bahorel, Joly, or Bossuet they would write or draw in this journal, jotting down moments and scraps of the past. It was calming, they'd found, and helped them put words to their grief even when they couldn't voice them out loud.

Combeferre takes it and flips through the pages, eyes lighting up as he reads over them, stopping for a moment on one of Grantaire's sketches of Joly and Bossuet, their arms flung around each other as they laugh. Grantaire's talent is such that it nearly leaps off the pages with life, and Enjolras and Combeferre's stay on it for several minutes, the sound of their friends' joy echoing there in the room with them. He flips another few pages and Jean Prouvaire's name is written in the center of the page in Courfeyrac's perfect script, words scattered around on the page that reminded him of their friend:  _Romantics, Wordsworth, Poetry, Alphonse de LaMartine, Intrepid, Flowers, Intensity, Emotion, Words, Language, Friendship, Republic, Revolution, Religion, Love_. The list goes on, the words running and blending into each other with excitement, sharing Jehan's enthusiasm for learning and life, reflecting his feeling. They flip through again, landing on a page with a single line in Gavroche's messy hand.

_Never a Lawyer._

They chuckle, and Enjolras can hear Bahorel's voice in his head, deep with amusement. They turn the page one final time, together, landing on a page near the beginning in Feuilly's writing.

_Les Amis de l'ABC. Family._

"There are a few pages left, it would seem," Combeferre says.

"Yes," Enjolras agrees, turning to the few blank pages at the back. "Just enough to finish the story, isn't there?"

Combeferre's smile reaches his eyes, and Enjolras feels himself thrown back in time to the day he first met Combeferre in the upstairs back room of the Musain. Images fill his head; shades of the same smile, books spread across the table, a shared cause as they make notes in the margins. Passionate debates and friendly disagreements over their approaches toward the same goal. Citizen. Man. He'd come to Paris with purpose blazing at the bottom of his soul, and little did he know just how much that fire would spread through him as he read even more, as he met his friends. Did not know how his chance meeting with Combeferre that day in early fall would lead to friendships that formed a family. So much has changed, he thinks. And yet at the same time, some things will ever remain the same.

* * *

Something about Paris is timeless.

Enjolras closes his eyes, feeling the moment around him breathing with life, with the immediate crackling intensity of the present. Seconds die away and the future comes closer with each passing moment. Something about it feels tangible, like Enjolras could reach out and touch the emotion of a city that feels as alive as the people living within its boundaries. They arrived just yesterday to a city erupting with rebellion, bleeding with revolution, righteous anger and sheer determination swirling around them. They stand somewhere on the rue de Richelieu, watching the final pieces of the barricade being put into place. Gavroche is in the midst of it, and Enjolras keeps an eye on him, not forgetting the fact that Gavroche is around the same age he was sixteen years ago, and the resolve in his face rings familiar.

"I heard some of the men saying that the king summoned Adolphe Thiers," Courfeyrac says, striding back over to them. "Asked him to be premier. The word is that he refused, though there's no confirmation."

Enjolras wrinkles his nose. "He is too centrist, too conservative. This is beyond him, I think. It's been building ever since 1830. He is not enough of an appeasement."

Combeferre nods. "Appeasement will not stop this," he agrees.

"You believe we will win?" Feuilly asks, and Enjolras does not miss the enthused glimmer in his eyes.

"I do not like to predict such things," Combeferre, says, but he does smile. "But I believe we have a great chance, yes. Particularly with the national guard on our side. I cannot expect to know what sort of government will take power, whether it will be more conservative or liberal, but…"

"It might be the end of the monarchy," Enjolras finishes, his hands trembling slightly with feeling. "It will be a republic."

Contemplative silence falls among them for a moment, but when Enjolras looks up, Grantaire looks at each of them in turn, grinning.

"What?" Enjolras asks, Grantaire's own expression drawing a smile out of him.

"I was just thinking how pleased I am to be here fully this time around," he says, and Enjolras remembers the wine in his hand at the barricade before, remembers his withdrawal months later, his determination to push through. He remembers Grantaire's patience with him through his rehabilitation, using his own athleticism to help Enjolras relearn his own with an injured leg. And though there is humor in his voice, there is also a kind of reverence, an appreciation. "To see all of you so passionate. To bear witness to humanity perhaps being better than I might have given it credit for. To see the good things I wished were true actually come to pass."

Enjolras smiles fully, grasping Grantaire's shoulder for a moment. He does not miss the way his friends flinch slightly at some of the loud noises around them. He does too, remainders of the trauma from years ago that will never quite leave them, but that they have learned to manage. Their desire to be here outshines everything else, memories of their younger selves forefront in their minds. Frenzied activity goes on around them, people shouting and pieces of furniture and a random assortment of objects tossed together to create this barricade, a symbol of their rebellion and practically a Parisian tradition at this point. From what they've seen and if the reports are correct, there are already more people than 1832, and something electric in the air tells Enjolras the people are with them. The smell of gunpowder sends his heart racing with anticipation and anxiety both, so he breathes in deep, letting the calm spread through him, clenching and unclenching his fists until he feels the prickling anxiety ebb. He closes his eyes a moment, opening them to see a younger man, somewhere in his 30s, Enjolras thinks, stop his work, turning to look at their group. His eyes land on Enjolras and he raises his eyebrows, a smile playing at his lips, before he walks over.

"Pardon my interruption citizens," he says, curiosity in his tone. "But…" he drops his voice to a whisper, looking at Enjolras. "You bear a very striking resemblance to someone, well, I'm not quite sure how to put this….to someone who I thought was killed in the 1832 rebellion. Are you…are you René Enjolras? Are you related to him?"

It is the first time in 16 years Enjolras has heard anyone other than his inner circle say his real name, and the joy of it washes over him with warmth. He looks at his friends a moment, but there is no need, here, to hide his identity. Even Valjean, he thinks fondly, would agree.

"I am," he says, and the man's mouth drops open. Courfeyrac chuckles and the man realizes himself, closing it once more. "And these are my comrades who were there also. Auguste Combeferre, Marcel Courfeyrac, Luc Feuilly, and Lucien Grantaire."

He nods at each of them, the admiration clear on his face.

"Henri Martin," he says, gesturing at himself. I was only eighteen when that rebellion took place. But already in a small group of other students newly arrived to Paris with the same sentiments," he says, his eyes alight. "We saw the posters of you around the city, and we'd hoped you'd made it somewhere safe, particularly after they finally managed to get their dirty hands on Charles Jeanne…"

Enjolras feels sadness swoop through his stomach. Jeanne had been one of the leading republicans in Paris, and Les Amis respected him immensely, met with him several times, and when they'd received news he'd died in prison in 1837, there hadn't been much merriment at home that night.

"I read about his trial," Enjolras says. "He…he was an unceasingly courageous man. I had the pleasure of meeting him a few times."

"Then we heard you were dead," the man continues. "But…you're not."

"A complicated story," Enjolras says. "But no. An extremely kind soul got us out of the barricade, took us in with his daughter, and has been looking out for us ever since. I have been living in Avignon, with my comrades, who have done an immense amount of good work."

Feuilly shoots him a glance, rolling his eyes affectionately as if to say,  _you also have been doing good work._ Footsteps from behind signal Gavroche's return, and he looks quizzically at the newcomer in front of them.

"You are the secretly republican mayor of Avignon," Henri breathes. "It is…it is an honor, citizen." He looks at all of them. "It is an immense honor to meet  _all_  of you. Are you all possibly the authors of the Monsieur A.B.C. pamphlets that originated there also?"

Enjolras nods again, and Henri's smiles grows wider.

He reaches his hand out and Enjolras takes it, grasping firmly. Nothing can mimic the innate trust between people sharing the same cause, he thinks.

"The same to you." He gestures Gavroche forward. "And this is our young friend Gavroche Fauchelevent. Gavroche, this is Henri Martin."

"Pleased to meet you," Gavroche says.

Henri reaches out and shakes all of their hands, great respect in his touch.

"You inspired us, you know," he says. "To keep fighting even as the laws became harsher against us. You stood even when you knew you might lose. This war is made up of losses and victories, isn't it? And no loss is ever a loss when you stood up for something."

"No," Enjolras says, and find the words Henri speaks strike him so much that his own voice cracks just a bit. "It isn't."

"Those kinds of words mean a great deal to us," Courfeyrac says, grasping Henri's hand again.

"You were never forgotten," Henri says, voice vibrant with feeling. "Perhaps to Loius-Phillipe, to the government, to those less dedicated to this task, 1832 fell out of memory. But never to us. Never to those who fight for the same dream. Never to the people in whose name you risked your lives, in whose name many died. We might not have known all of your names, but to us, you  _were_  historic."

Judging by the looks on his friends' faces, they feel these words as deeply as Enjolras does. For all of those moments when doubt struck them, when fear told their perpetual hope  _your cause is lost_ , these words ring true. Henri must sense his words striking a chord, and says he will go and retrieve them all weapons, putting a hand on Gavroche's shoulder and asking him to help carry them.

"Well," Feuilly says. "I suppose Gavroche will not be pestering us for a gun, this time around."

They all laugh, a sound that mixes oddly with the other noises around them, but still fits, somehow. Enjolras looks around at each of them, considering their scars, physical reminders of where they've been. Of another barricade so many years ago. There's one on Combeferre's forearm, visible now that his sleeves are rolled up from helping build the barricade. It came from the scrape of a bayonet, and Enjolras remembers kicking the National Guardsman in the chest, pushing him away from Combeferre. There's one above Courfeyrac's eyebrow, faded white now against his skin, visible only up close. One rests on the edge of Grantaire's face, near his ear, scraped on something when they were marching through the sewer. Feuilly has a thin one across the palm of his hand from a broken piece of the barricade, and sometimes he points out how similar it looks to the one on Enjolras' own palm. He turns his hand over, looking at it for a moment, remembering that day in front of the Avignon jail, of Javert and the knife and the Laudanum. Of Valjean holding him upright and whispering encouragement into his ear. Of Combeferre's gentle hands on his face. He'd felt cracked to his core that day, but the love of his friends in that moment held him together, and as he looks at them now, he is overcome, the immensity of his love for them filling him up to the brim and bathing all the dark memories of the past with light. He watches them a moment until Feuilly notices, turning to him with a curious half smile.

"Enjolras?" he asks. "Are you all right?"

"Perfectly," he says, taking Feuilly's hand when it's offered, grasping it firmly for a moment, an anchor to the world at his feet as he feels his soul soar somewhere up into the unknown days of the future. He hears his own words in his ears.

_Citizens, do you picture to yourselves the future? The streets of the cities inundated with light…._

_Courage, and onward! Citizens, whither are we going? To science made government, to the force of things become the sole public force, to the natural law, having in itself its sanction and its penalty and promulgating itself by evidence, to a dawn of truth corresponding to a dawn of day._

_Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy._

On the third day of fighting, the rebellion declares victory. They are covered in scratches and gunpowder and dirt and little smears of blood. They are exhausted. But there is victory, and they have all survived. Louis-Phillipe has abdicated, and a provisional government is setting itself up. The specifics are debatable, who will take power and what side of the spectrum do they fall upon, but there remains little doubt that it will indeed be a republic. Enjolras' eyes glance at a placard that must have been left sometime in the night or early evening, his heart swelling with things he cannot name or articulate.

_Citizens! By your heroism, you have once more forced despotism into its last retrenchments. But you conquered on 14 July 1789, 10 August 1792, 29 July 1830, and each time you were robbed of the benefits of your victory…let these examples instruct you at last!_

The final push, Enjolras thinks. The last breath of effort to secure what France deserved. He feels a friendly hand seize his wrist. Courfeyrac.

"Let us go to the top of the barricade," he says, unbridled happiness gleaming in his eyes. "I want us all to see it. I want you to see it."

Enjolras looks down at his leg a moment, hand grasping his cane. Courfeyrac reads the hesitation instantly, moving down from Enjolras' wrist to grasp his hand.

"We will help you up. Never you worry."

Enjolras nods, and this time, he does not feel an ounce of shame for needing assistance. They find Henri at the bottom of the barricade and he takes charge of Enjolras' cane.

"I will keep it safe," he says, gesturing them up. "Go take a look."

Courfeyrac takes a bit of the weight from the injured side, and Enjolras finds himself able to get to the top with only a bit of twinging, the others following behind and gathering around. He pauses a moment, eyes lingering on the pieces of the barricade. When he looks up, he loses his breath, his eyes growing moist. He can see several other barricades from this height, flags fluttering in the wind upon each of them, the joyous shouting erupting all around him as the sun shines high in the sky, bathing everything in soft, warm light.

There are not words.

Enjolras remembers the guilt he'd felt sixteen years ago, guilt over his friends' deaths, over the lost barricade. It was gone now. It left when he remembered that the entirety of this battle could not possibly fall on his shoulders, that it was always and forever a joint effort of people from all over, each unique pieces of the same puzzle with their own talents and contributions. When he remembered that he could only put in all of his effort for his part, fighting and bleeding and trying until he was utterly spent. The guilt had been born out of grief and trauma, out of the inevitable truth that some of the battles in this war they fight would be losses, though they were no less important. No less crucial than the victories. The remembered names as important as the forgotten ones because they all stood for the same ideals, the same hopes and dreams. The system they fought against took his friends' lives, and he will continue fighting against that same system. They fell as defiant, brave, incredible men who knew what they stood for, who manned the barricade because they wished to be there, and he is proud of them for that. Honored they chose him as their chief. Guilt comes sometimes, but it is a different guilt, survivor's guilt, as Combeferre puts it, a remnant of them living while their friends died. But he pushes it away when it comes, because his friends wouldn't want him to feel that way. Instead, he channels it toward all the work in Avignon, to this moment on the barricade. And he knows for certain his friends would be proud of all of them. Of him.

There would be more battles. Perhaps soon. There would be more bloodshed. One could not predict the details and the timeframe of the future, but Enjolras sees it here, in this moment. In the unbridled love of country people all around Paris showed the past three days. In saying that a better life exists for everyone, no matter their station. Human dignity fought for through love so strong it was utterly unbreakable. The voice of the people rings out against the horizon, red flag flying high next to the tricolor. Enjolras takes Combeferre's hand on one side and Courfeyrac's on the other, and they take Feuilly's and Grantaire's and Gavroche's. With unyielding clarity, they think of Valjean and Cosette and Marius and Javert, of their lives in Paris and their lives in Avignon.

They smile. And as they do, four others smile with them.

_Long Live the Republic._

 


End file.
